“I hope better things for Pat and Nelly, Mr. Beaumont. I know how difficult it will be for him and Nelly to struggle out of their present surroundings; but I have faith.” “Yes, you may have faith, Miss Fairfax; but I fear the surroundings will be stronger than your faith. I suppose environment has a lot to say to it. See! I don’t like the idea of Sullivan going and making a mess of it again after the way you’ve tried to save him. Can’t you get him and Nelly out of Duskin’s?” “It would be a help, of course. But environment isn’t everything, Mr. Beaumont.” They were walking slowly on the New Street now, and many turned to cast an envious and admiring glance at the well-known young lawyer and the beautiful, graceful figure that moved, _dea certe_, by his side. “Perhaps not. But it must be difficult to cultivate the domestic virtues—that was what we called them, I think?—at such a hole as Duskin’s. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Tell Nelly to find a small house somewhere near Sullivan’s work, and if you don’t mind getting them some furniture into it—you can go to Oldfield and tell him to send the bill in to me. We’ll give poor Pat a chance, anyway; but I’m afraid the sticks will find their way back to Oldfield before the month’s over. And now, good-bye, Miss Fairfax,” and Beaumont hurried away to avoid the thanks his companion was beginning to express. CHAPTER III. It was the beginning of the Long Vacation, and Edward Beaumont was asking himself how he should spend his holiday. Sam Storth had already elected for Scotland, and had amused his partner by appearing at the office in a tweed shooting suit, knicker-bockers and ribbed stockings and stout boots complete. Sam was breaking his suit in, so that by the time he reached the land of cakes it might be subtly suggestive of honourable service on the moors. “I don’t suppose you could hit a haystack if you tried, Sam,” Edward had commented, with an amused smile. “Practising in a shooting gallery at Huddersfield Fair at three shots a penny must be rather different from popping at grouse on their native heath.” “Well, I’m not going to pop at grouse on their native heath or anywhere else. When I tackle that toothsome bird give me a knife and fork, and I’m your man. But a fellow can’t go to Scotland, even if he doesn’t get further North than Princess Street in Auld Reekie—that’s the correct name for the town, isn’t it?—in a frock-coat and top hat. But here’s a letter for you marked ‘Private.’ I’d nearly opened it with the office letters.” Beaumont looked at the envelope. There was a crest and motto on the flap. “_Forliter et leniter_, a lion rampant air scraping, I call it. What rot this heraldic tomfoolery is? Who the deuce can it be from?” “Better open it and see,” suggested Storth. Beaumont read the letter rapidly, then more carefully, and finally handed it to his partner. “Read it up, Sam. Who in the name of all that’s ecclesiastical is Hugh St. Clair, Archdeacon?”