And yet here was some worrying message—some question about a lease or an agreement, or somebody’s rick had been burnt, or somebody’s chimney had fallen through the roof. He opened the little envelope with a vexed air, resentful of an unexpected annoyance. He read the message, and then sat blankly staring; read again, and rose from his seat suddenly with a cry of horror. Never in his life had he experienced such a shock; never had those iron nerves, that heart, burned hard in the furnace of this world’s strife, been so tried. He stood aghast, and could only give the little paper—with its type-printed syllables—to his scared wife, while he stood gazing at summer sky and summer sea in a blank helplessness, realizing dimly that something had happened which must change the whole course of the future, and overthrow every plan he had ever made. “The third Baron Cheriton.” Strange, but in that awful moment the words he had repeated idly on the sands half an hour ago echoed again in his ear. Alas, he felt as if that title for which he had toiled was already extinct. He saw, as in a vision, the velvet cap and golden coronet upon the coffin lid, as the first and last Lord Cheriton was carried to his grave. That prophetic vision must needs be realized within a few years. There would be no one to succeed him. Murdered! Why? By whom? What devil had been conjured out of hell to cut short that honest, stainless life? What had Godfrey Carmichael done that a murderer’s hand should be raised against him? * * * * * Lady Cheriton’s softer nature found relief in tears before the day was done; tears and agonized pacings up and down those rooms where life had been so placid in the sunlight—agonized supplications that God would take pity upon her widowed girl. “So young, and so happy, and a widow—a widow before her nineteenth birthday,” wailed the mother. Lord Cheriton’s grief was of a sterner kind, and found no outlet in words. He held a brief consultation with his valet, a soldierly looking man, who had fought under Garibaldi in Burgundy, when the guerilla captain made his brilliant endeavour to save sinking France. They looked at time-tables and calculated hours. The express to Paris would not arrive in time for the evening mail _viâ_ Calais and Dover. It was Saturday. The cargo boat would cross to Southampton that night, and influence would obtain accommodation for his Lordship and party on board her. The valet took a fly and drove off to the quay to find the South-Western superintendent, and secure a private cabin for his master and mistress. They would have the boat to themselves, and would be at Southampton at seven o’clock next morning, and at Cheriton before noon, even if it were necessary to engage a special engine to take them there. Lord Cheriton telegraphed to his daughter. “Your mother and I will be with you to-morrow morning. Be brave for our sakes. Remember that you are all we have to live for.”