"What were the net proceeds of my mother's sale?" He handed this to Evans. The solicitor wrote some figures, and returned the paper to Grey. The banker turned down the side of paper with the figures, and went to the window. With his back to the attorney and clerks he read the figures. The paper fell from his hand. He raised his face against the thin winter light. He folded his arms tightly across his chest. A convulsive movement began at the shoulders and descended throughout his body. He swayed to and fro violently. Evans raised his head, and saw something was wrong. He stole softly behind the banker, and placed his hand on the other's arm. "Come this way. Come to my private room," whispered the solicitor gently. Grey moved away mechanically. Even with the attorney's assistance he walked unsteadily. When he had reached the private room Evans pressed Grey into a chair, locked the door, and said: "Rest a while. Rest a while, and then tell me." Grey rose to his feet laboriously, as if his joints were frozen. He placed a hand on each shoulder of Evans, and said, in a heavy husky voice: "Evans--my God! Evans--do you know what has happened?" "No." "My mother, upwards of seventy years of age, has left Daneford and gone I don't know where; and she has not a roof to cover her, a meal to eat, or a shilling in her pocket." The sum Evans had written on that piece of paper was seven thousand three hundred and eighty-four pounds, seven shillings and fourpence. "Evans, she hasn't kept a copper. By this time she may be without a shilling." Half an hour elapsed before Grey found himself able to command himself sufficiently to face the public eye. Evans offered to do anything in his power. He undertook to find Mrs. Grey and ascertain her condition; but Grey refused all help. He felt perfectly convinced his mother would allow nothing to be done for her by him. If she beggared herself to pay some of the stolen money, it was not likely she would accept money from him who had committed the theft. When he left Evans's office he walked slowly and sadly towards the Bank. It was now dusk. He went to his private-room, and, flinging himself into a chair, sat long gazing at the fire. He had, he had fancied, banished all thought of his mother from his mind for ever. He had flattered himself he had cast off all his old affection, so that it might be no longer a stumbling-stone in the path of his ambition. But this horrible discovery of the old woman's absolute destitution could not be resisted. His mother a homeless wanderer among strange people in the winter time! Unendurable thought! She to whom he had looked up with love and reverence all his life, who had soothed and cheered him in the little griefs of his boyhood and the trials of his manhood, now without a fireside of her own!