“From the eldest child—a girl named Jessie,” replied the other. “It appears that a distant cousin who has been in charge of them has died suddenly, and she is rather at a loss what to do. She wrote to me about sending the captain’s pay to her.” “Yes,” said his son, nodding; “but what has Hartley got to do with it?” “Do with it?” repeated Mr. Vyner in surprised tones. “I take it that he is in a way their grandfather.” “Gran—” began his son, and sat gasping. “Yes, of course,” he said, presently, “of course. I hadn’t thought of that. Of course.” “From his manner at first Hartley appeared to have forgotten it too,” said Mr. Vyner, “but he soon saw with me that the children ought not to be left alone. The eldest is only seventeen.” Robert tried to collect his thoughts. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “He has arranged for them to come and live with him,” continued Mr. Vyner. The upper part of his son’s body disappeared with startling suddenness over the arm of his chair and a hand began groping blindly in search of a fallen pen. A dangerous rush of blood to the head was perceptible as he regained the perpendicular. “Was—was Hartley agreeable to that?” he inquired, steadying his voice. His father drew himself up in his chair. “Certainly,” he said, stiffly; “he fell in with the suggestion at once. It ought to have occurred to him first. Besides the relationship, he and Trimblett are old friends. The captain is an old servant of the firm and his children must be looked after; they couldn’t be left alone in London.” “It’s a splendid idea,” said Robert—“splendid. By far the best thing that you could have done.” “I have told him to write to the girl to-night,” said Mr. Vyner. “He is not sure that she knows of her father’s second marriage. And I have told him to take a day or two off next week and go up to town and fetch them. It will be a little holiday for him.” “Quite a change for him,” agreed Robert. Conscious of his father’s scrutiny, his face was absolutely unmoved and his voice easy. “How many children are there?” “Five,” was the reply—“so she says in the letter. The two youngest are twins.” For the fraction of a second something flickered across the face of Robert Vyner and was gone. “Trimblett’s second marriage was rather fortunate for them,” he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. He restrained his feelings until his father had gone, and then, with a gasp of relief, put his head on the table and gave way to them. Convulsive tremours assailed him, and hilarious sobs escaped at intervals from his tortured frame. Ejaculations of “Joan!” and “Poor girl!” showed that he was not entirely bereft of proper feeling.