In it the writer stated that he was utterly tired of the idle, purposeless life he had been leading for the past two years, and that if his father would agree to give him six thousand pounds down, he would emigrate to the United States and never trouble him for another shilling as long as he lived. But he would do more, much more, than that, should his father consent to his proposition. In that case he would agree to the cutting off of the entail and would sign whatever documents might be needful for the due carrying out of that design. Sir Gilbert sat staring at the letter after he had finished reading it like a man whose faculties had been paralysed by sheer amazement. So absorbed was his attention that he was unconscious of the door behind him being opened and of the entry of his wife. Her footfalls made no noise on the thick carpet. She went up behind him and was on the point of placing a hand on his shoulder, when her gaze vas attracted to the letter which lay spread open on the writing-table in front of him. Lady Clare was more than a score of years younger than her husband and her eyesight was still as keen as ever it had been. Half-a-dozen seconds sufficed her to take in the sense of Alec’s letter, the handwriting of which she had at once recognised. A little gasp escaped her before she knew it. An instant later the baronet had started to his feet, and was confronting her with flaming eyes; involuntarily his hand closed over the letter. “Madam, I am not in the habit of being startled in this way,” he said, “nor do I like it.” “On the contrary, dear, it was you who startled me,” she replied in her blandest accents, with a hand pressed to her left side. “Of course I naturally supposed that you had heard the door opened and shut, and was on the point of addressing you when you started up as if you had been shot.” “Humph! I have had occasion before to-day to beg of you not to be quite so feline in your movements,” he answered with something like a snarl. “Did you—did you read any portion of the letter that was on the table in front of me?” “My dear Gilbert, what _do_ you take me for! That there _was_ a letter there, I am aware, but as for reading as much as a line of it——” “There, there, that will do. Just ring the bell, will you, and then tell me what you want to see me about.” When the servant came in response to the summons, he said: “Tell Graves to bring the dog-cart round at once.” Ten minutes later saw Sir Gilbert on his way to Mapleford with his son’s letter in his pocket. In such a contingency he felt that he could not do better than seek the advice of his valued counsellor. Mr. Page, a tall, lanky, somewhat loose-jointed man, with a long thin face, a prominent nose and an expression that was a curious compound of hard common sense, shrewdness and good-nature, gave vent to a low whistle when he had come to the end of Alec’s epistle. “What an exceedingly foolish young man!” were his first words.