Before he had written out the cheque, a moth fluttering round the candle distracted his attention, and by the time he had caught and put it out he had forgotten that the cheque was not enclosed. The letter, removed with his clothes before he was awake, was posted in an empty state. One morning a week later he was sitting in the smoking-room in the company of the gentleman called Mabbey, who was telling him how many grouse he had deprived of life on August 12 last year, and how many he intended to deprive of life on August 12 this year, when the door was opened, and the butler entered, carrying his head as though it held some fatal secret. “A young man is asking for you, sir,” he said to Shelton, bending down discreetly; “I don't know if you would wish to see him, sir.” “A young man!” repeated Shelton; “what sort of a young man?” “I should say a sort of foreigner, sir,” apologetically replied the butler. “He's wearing a frock-coat, but he looks as if he had been walking a good deal.” Shelton rose with haste; the description sounded to him ominous. “Where is he?” “I put him in the young ladies' little room, sir.” “All right,” said Shelton; “I 'll come and see him. Now, what the deuce!” he thought, running down the stairs. It was with a queer commingling of pleasure and vexation that he entered the little chamber sacred to the birds, beasts, racquets, golf-clubs, and general young ladies' litter. Ferrand was standing underneath the cage of a canary, his hands folded on his pinched-up hat, a nervous smile upon his lips. He was dressed in Shelton's old frock-coat, tightly buttoned, and would have cut a stylish figure but far his look of travel. He wore a pair of pince-nez, too, which somewhat veiled his cynical blue eyes, and clashed a little with the pagan look of him. In the midst of the strange surroundings he still preserved that air of knowing, and being master of, his fate, which was his chief attraction. “I 'm glad to see you,” said Shelton, holding out his hand. “Forgive this liberty,” began Ferrand, “but I thought it due to you after all you've done for me not to throw up my efforts to get employment in England without letting you know first. I'm entirely at the end of my resources.” The phrase struck Shelton as one that he had heard before. “But I wrote to you,” he said; “did n't you get my letter?” A flicker passed across the vagrant's face; he drew the letter from his pocket and held it out. “Here it is, monsieur.” Shelton stared at it. “Surely,” said he, “I sent a cheque?” Ferrand did not smile; there was a look about him as though Shelton by forgetting to enclose that cheque had done him a real injury. Shelton could not quite hide a glance of doubt. “Of course,” he said, “I--I--meant to enclose a cheque.” Too subtle to say anything, Ferrand curled his lip. “I am capable of much, but not of that,” he seemed to say; and at once Shelton felt the meanness of his doubt. “Stupid of me,” he said.