"So I heard, miss, afterwards. But, really, at the time I was frightened lest he should do himself a mischief--he looked so wild." Ann's heart skipped a beat. "Do himself a mischief?" she interposed quickly. "What do you mean? How could he?" "I don't know _how_, miss. But I tell you, I'm frightened for Master Tony. I am, truly." Ann gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "Where does he spend his time, Mellow? Have you any idea?" "I have not, miss. But I do know this--that it's sometimes two and three o'clock in a morning before he comes home. My bedroom's on the ground floor, as you know, and I hear him come in and go upstairs almost always after midnight. Last night 'twas near one o'clock, and another night it may be later still. It bodes no good for a young gentleman to be coming home at all hours. Of that I _am_ sure." "I think you're right, Mellow," replied Ann gravely. "Does Sir Philip know about it, do you think?" "Indeed, miss, I fancy he guesses. But mostly he's too proud to speak what he thinks. Though he did say to me, one evening about a week or ten days before you came here, 'Mellow,' says he, 'the boy's going the same way as his father.' And then he swore, miss--something awful it was to hear him--that he'd not lift a finger to keep Master Tony out of the gutter. 'He'll end up in jail, Mellow,' he said, 'and bring shame on the old name. All I hope is that I'll be dead and buried before it happens.' And with that he gets up and goes out and slams the door behind him." Ann was silent. It seemed to her that things were even more seriously amiss than she had imagined. Mrs. Mellow glanced at her wistfully. "Do you think, miss, that you could say a word to Master Tony!" she said. "Talk to him for his own good? He always used to take a lot of notice of what you said to him, I remember." "I know he did," returned Ann. "But he doesn't give me any opportunity of talking to him now"--ruefully. "All the same," she added with determination, "I shall certainly talk to him before I go home. I'll get hold of him this evening." But Tony proved obdurately uncommunicative. "It's too late to _'talk'_!" he told her, with a roughness that was quite foreign to him. "All the talking in the world wouldn't mend matters. It's"--he looked at her oddly--"it's neck or nothing now, Ann." His eyes were feverishly brilliant, and Ann could see that even during the last few days his boyish face had grown strangely haggard-looking. "Tony, you're in trouble of some sort. I wish you'd tell me about it," she entreated. "There's nothing to tell. Don't fuss so, Ann"--irritably. "I said it was neck or nothing. Well, it's going to be _neck_! I swear it shall be. I'm going to win through all right. And before long, too!"