“MY DEAR MADAM,”--so this straightforward letter began--“I greatly regret the necessity of calling your attention to the subject of your eldest son; but as that subject is at present connected with the happiness of my only daughter, there is no other course left me to pursue. You are aware that Sophy is my only child, and your own feelings as a mother will lead you to understand that her welfare must be infinitely precious to me. My reason for troubling you to-day is very simple, and the question I desire to have answered is, I think, natural enough, being neither more nor less than a demand, on my part, whether the report that your son Arthur has a horse in training for the turf is true or false. You will perhaps be inclined to ask why I have thought it necessary to beat about the bush; why, in short, I did not put this question to your son instead of to you. To this very natural remark all I could say is that I _did_, without delay, mention the reports which had reached my ears to Arthur, and that from him I could gain no satisfactory reply. He neither positively denied or actually confirmed the scandal; for so great is my horror of gambling in any shape that I can designate taking a single step on what is called the ‘turf’ by no milder name; and the consequence of our conversation was simply this,--namely, that, being very far from satisfied either by your son’s words or manner, I take the liberty of requesting your maternal aid in discovering the truth. Of your son’s constant, I was about to say daily, visits at the Paddocks there is, I fear, no doubt, and you can hardly wonder that, with my child’s future comfort at stake, I feel it my bounden duty to investigate thoroughly, and without loss of time, the cause and motive for a proceeding so remarkable. I have no desire that this inquiry, on my part, should be kept secret either from Arthur or from the world at large, and have the honour to remain, dear madam, “Yours faithfully, “ANDREW DUBERLY.” “Well, old fellow, you are in for it now! I wouldn’t be in your place for something,” said Horace when, half an hour after he had finished reading “old Dub’s” letter, and long before the annoyance caused by its perusal had in any degree subsided, Arthur lounged, after his usual indolent fashion, through the open window into the library. “Well, what _is_ the row? The girls told me there was something wrong. Upon my soul, one might as well pitch one’s tent in Mexico, or in the Argentine Republic, for any chance of peace one has in this confounded place.”