Yet, for all my resolution, my own heart was beating violently as I went to seek the old man in his study, where he sat alone. He was at his desk, his head leaned upon his hand. The lights were lit, but not enough to flood the room, which lay in partial shadow. It gave me a pitiful shock, as he turned his face, to see how haggard it was, how unkempt his hair, so sprucely groomed in general, how all in a base moment his age had betrayed him. He started upon recognising me, and gave a heavy sigh, and rose as if to move, but, feeling his weakness, sank down again, with a forced laugh. “Egad!” said he--“and I’ve drunk nothing. You must come to the mountain, Mahomet, as it can’t come to you.” I took a chair by the desk, and, leaning forward, looked at him earnestly. “Lord Skene,” I said low, “Miss Christmas has told me. You meant her to, I suppose?” He hesitated an instant; then pushed an open letter towards me; but in the act withdrew it. “One moment, my boy,” he said. “There are things that--the essentials are all you’ll need. Oblige me by reading only what I underline.” He was busy a little, with a shaking hand; then thrust the letter towards me once more. “There,” he said. “You’re her son anyhow. You’ll spare me any comments, Gaskett, but such as bear strictly upon the question of her flight and its reasons. I think it likely you’ll know more about those than I do. There seems a coincidence--damn it, boy, wasn’t there some damned conscious raven croaking in you the other day, when--there, read what I’ve underlined.” He turned his face away impatiently as I took his letter, and read what he had marked:--