From tea-time that day until it was time to catch the midnight train for Bishop's Auckland he had been occupied with his son Mark in the writing-room of the club. They had made many notes. He had seen his son Christopher, in uniform, looking broken and rather bloated, the result, no doubt, of debauch. Christopher had passed through the other end of the room and Mr. Tietjens had avoided his eye. He had caught the train and reached Groby, travelling alone. Towards dusk he had taken out a gun. He was found dead next morning, a couple of rabbits beside his body, just over the hedge from the little churchyard. He appeared to have crawled through the hedge, dragging his loaded gun, muzzle forwards, after him. Hundreds of men, mostly farmers, die from that cause every year in England. . . . With these things in his mind--or as much of them as he could keep at once--Mark was now investigating his brother's affairs. He would have let things go on longer, for his father's estate was by no means wound up, but that morning Ruggles had told him that the club had had a cheque of his brother's returned and that his brother was going out to France next day. It was five months exactly since the death of their father. That had happened in March, it was now August: a bright, untidy day in narrow, high courts. Mark arranged his thoughts. "How much of an income," he said, "do you need to live in comfort? If a thousand isn't enough, how much? Two?" Christopher said that he needed no money and didn't intend to live in comfort. Mark said: "I am to let you have three thousand, if you'll live abroad. I'm only carrying out our father's instructions. You could cut a hell of a splash on three thousand in France." Christopher did not answer. Mark began again: "The remaining three thousand then: that was over from our mother's money. Did you settle it on your girl, or just spend it on her?" Christopher repeated with patience that he hadn't got a girl. Mark said: "The girl who had a child by you. I'm instructed, if you haven't settled anything already--but father took it that you would have--I was to let her have enough to live in comfort. How much do you suppose she'll need to live in comfort? I allow Charlotte four hundred. Would four hundred be enough? I suppose you want to go on keeping her? Three thousand isn't a great lot for her to live on with a child." Christopher said: "Hadn't you better mention names?" Mark said: "No! I never mention names. I mean a woman writer and her daughter. I suppose the girl is father's daughter, isn't she?" Christopher said: "No. She couldn't be. I've thought of it. She's twenty-seven. We were all in Dijon for the two years before she was born. Father didn't come into the estate till next year. The Wannops were also in Canada at the time. Professor Wannop was principal of a university there. I forget the name." Mark said: