Linton, guessing that the President was _in extremis_, nevertheless had hoped to be in time to bid a last farewell to the taciturn man who had shown him much friendly feeling, and of whom, as Zenobia's father, he was anxious to think the best. But when the _Bladud_ descended on the spacious lawn of the house on Bathwick Hill, the blinds were down. The whole place wore that sad and subtle air which impresses itself upon a scene of death. There was no need to ask questions. Linton understood. A faint, half-hearted yelp from Peter was the first sound that greeted him. Presently, inside the darkened house, he awaited the coming of Peter's mistress. The door opened very quietly, and Zenobia entered; a slim, sad figure, the blackness of whose dress in that dim light heightened the pallor of her face. Her hand was in his own. He looked into her eyes; the gaze of the lover softened and chastened to that of the tender and compassionate friend. "You understand how much I feel for you," he said. "Yes," she answered gratefully, "It was good of you to come. But, in a sense, it is too late." He waited quietly for what she chose to say. "I mean," she added "that I hoped you could come before ... before the end. But at the last it was sudden, so sudden." "You have something to tell me. There is something I can do for you in your trouble?" Zenobia paused for a moment. Then, with some effort and a faint tinge of colour coming to her cheeks, continued: "If you had come while my father lived, I could have told him...." She looked down, and drew a long deep sigh of distress. "I could have told him," she then went on with greater firmness, "that you, if you were willing, could help us, though so late, to do an act of justice to another. Mr. Herrick, it grieves me to tell you...." She turned away and rested her elbows on the marble mantelpiece, unable for the moment to proceed. "Perhaps I know more than you suppose," he said very gently, "and, perhaps, I can guess the rest." "No," turning towards him, "I won't ask you to guess. Why should you help me, unless I tell you all, everything--everything, fully and frankly? Will you read this?" He look the paper the girl placed in his hands, but did not immediately unfold it. "I am willing to do anything you can wish, asking no questions," he said. She looked at him with eyes that seemed to shine with grateful tears. "You are good to me. I have no other friends." "I am your friend," said Herrick, not without a tremor in his voice, "yours to command, always and in everything." For the moment she could not speak, but held out her hand to him impulsively. Holding the slim fingers tenderly, he bent and kissed them. "That paper," she said, "is my father's will. Will you read it, please!" Then she sat down and turned away her face. Linton read the will. The sheets rustled as he turned them over. He folded and returned them.