“Thank you!” said Valencia. “We’ll remember. But Guy—your father’s at the end of things. Won’t you see him?” “No!” answered Guy sharply. “No! I’m dead to him—and what’s the good of upsetting a dying man? Let things be, Valencia—as I said just now, perhaps you’ll know more and understand more, later on. At present——” The door opened just then, and Harry came back into the room. In his right hand he carried a lighted candle; in the left, the pocket-book, an old-fashioned thing of faded green leather, for which his brother had sent him. With a muttered word of thanks Guy took both pocket-book and candle from him, and crossing the room to its furthest side set down the candle on an oak press, and by its light proceeded to examine the pocket-book, while Harry and Valencia watched him. The examination was brief: Guy, after a quick glance at some of the papers which he drew from the old case, transferred certain of them to a wallet which he produced from a hip-pocket; this done he put wallet and pocket-book together and placed them where the wallet had come from. He blew out the candle and turned to his brother and sister. “Some old papers there that I wanted,” he said unconcernedly. “Nothing of any importance, but I wanted to have them.” He sat down again and lighted another cigar. “Now,” he went on, “as I haven’t much time, just let us talk business. Tell me, Harry, exactly how things stand about the estate: what you’re doing with it, and so on.” During the next half-hour, Valencia, listened to the two men as they discussed matters of rent, repairs, income, outgoings, realized that whatever else Guy might be, he was a shrewd business man; she realized, too, that he was honestly anxious to give Harry sound advice as to his future management of the Markenmore properties. Finally, he pulled out and handed to his younger brother a card. “There’s my business address in London,” he said, “and on the other side is an address in New York, to which you can write at any time during the next twelve months. Let me know how things go—everything. And now, I must be off.” He jumped to his feet and made for his hat and overcoat. Valencia glanced at the clock. “But why must you go now?” she asked. “You say you’re going to get the early morning train at Mitbourne? That doesn’t leave till after four o’clock. And it’s now only half-past ten.” Guy had already got into his overcoat. He smiled at Valencia’s questioning look. “Just so!” he answered. “But there’s somebody else in this neighbourhood that I’ve got to see—on business. Appointment, you understand?—already made. I must be off, or I shall be late for it.” “But—you ought to have had some supper—or something,” protested Valencia. “That’ll be ready where I’m going,” replied Guy. “There—don’t bother yourselves! Call Braxfield down—good old chap, that, and I must say good-bye to him.”