"Oh, don't let us talk about Harry Bennet," said Francis Eversleigh, from the head of the table, where he had been sitting in moody silence. He was so utterly unlike himself, indeed, that his wife was alarmed, but when she asked what ailed him he said he had "a rather bad headache"--a statement which scarcely reassured her, as she knew he never had headaches; and when she pressed him further, he replied sharply and irritably. But the wretched man hardly knew what he was saying or doing. One part of Silwood's advice he had made up his mind to accept and act upon, and this was that he would do nothing to forestall the fate which must over-take the firm, but to let things drift till the crash came. And, having come to this conclusion, the unfortunate solicitor told himself that he must try to behave as usual in his family circle. But he found it impossible. The tragic swiftness and completeness of the stroke dealt him by Silwood was too much for him. Now, as he thought of his home, and of his wife and children, and of the frightful secret he carried in his breast of the ruin hanging over them, a bitterness worse than that of death possessed him. Generally full of easy agreeable small-talk, that night he was gloomy and dumb. He made one effort only to talk. Kitty mentioned having had a letter from her father, whereupon he stated that the firm had also had one from Mr. Thornton. "By the way," he said, striving to speak in his ordinary tones, "your father made a curious omission in his letter to us; he does not specify when he is coming--gives no precise date. I dare say it was an oversight. I suppose he tells you in your letter just when to expect him, Kitty?" "No, he doesn't, Mr. Eversleigh--at least, not very precisely. He says he'll come soon after his letter, but he does not fix any date, as he wants to give me a little surprise. Still, I think he'll be here some day next week." "Next week!" said Eversleigh, slowly and painfully. To him it was the voice of doom, and he relapsed into silence again. CHAPTER IV Dinner over, Francis Eversleigh retired to his room, again excusing himself on the plea of headache, adding in a very uncertain voice that he would no doubt be better in the morning; but he looked harassed, worn, and ill. His wife concealed her consternation at his state as well as she could, and mentally tried to assign some cause for it; on reflection she thought that his reference at table to Harry Bennet, whose affairs, now much involved, she knew to be in the hands of the firm, probably suggested the correct explanation. Anxious to minister to her husband, and to find out if possible what distressed him so sorely, she wished to be alone with him, and she urged the others to go out for a stroll by the river. As the young people, nothing loth, went out, the two brothers exchanged a few words, Gilbert asking Ernest if he knew of anything in the office that had upset their father.