“Ah! if we were in Paris I could get some _friandise_ to tempt thee!” In the middle of January one morning a letter came from Sir Simon, bearing the London postmark. He had been obliged to come to England on pressing business of a harassing nature. “Is Sir Simon coming home, petit père?” inquired Franceline eagerly, as her father opened the letter. “Yes; but only for a day. He will be here after to-morrow, and fly away to Nice the next day.” “How tiresome of him! But it is better to see him for a day than not at all. Does he say what hour he arrives? We will go and meet him.” “It will be too late for thee to be out, my child. He comes by the late afternoon train, just in time to dress for dinner and receive us all. He has invited several friends in the neighborhood to dine.” “What a funny idea! And he is only coming for the day?” “Only for the day.” Raymond’s eyebrows closed like a horseshoe over his meditative eyes as he folded the baronet’s letter and laid it aside. There was more in it than he communicated to Franceline. It was the old story; money tight, bills falling due, and no means of meeting them. Lady Rebecca had taken a fresh start, thanks to an Italian quack who had been up from Naples and worked wonders with some diabolical elixir--diabolical beyond a doubt, for nothing but the black-art could explain the sudden and extraordinary rally; she was all but dead when the quack arrived--so Mr. Simpson heard from one of her ladyship’s attendants. Simpson himself was terribly put out by the news; it overturned all his immediate plans; he saw no possibility of any longer avoiding extremities. Extremities meant that the principal creditor, a Jew who had lent a sum of thirty thousand pounds on Sir Simon’s life-interest in Dullerton, at the rate of twenty per cent, was now determined to wait no longer for his arrears of twenty per cent, but turn the baronet out of possession and sell his life-interest in the estate. This sword of Damocles had been hanging over his debtor’s head for the last ten years. It was to meet this usurious interest periodically that Sir Simon was driven to such close quarters. He had up to this time contrived to answer the demand--Heaven and Mr. Simpson alone knew at what sacrifices. But now he had come to a point beyond which even he declared he could not possibly carry his client. He had tried to negotiate post-obit bills on Lady Rebecca’s fifty thousand pounds, but the Jews were too sharp for that. Lady Rebecca was sole master of her fifty thousand pounds, and might leave it to whom she liked. She had made her will bequeathing it to her step-son, and _he_ was morally as certain of ultimately possessing the money as if it were entailed; but moral security is no security at all to a money-lender. The money was _not_ entailed; Lady Rebecca might take it into her head to alter her will; she might leave it to a quack doctor, or to some clever sycophant of an attendant. There is no saying what an old lady of