“I told you, Ella, I was powerless to judge any man,” he said. “Take my assurance as regards Roderick and forget it all. The answer to your question I have no right to give to any but one being in the world. Then it would be my duty.” “Dorothy?” “No. Another.” Their eyes met for a moment. Hers lowered, and a faint spot of colour came into her cheek. “I understand. Forgive me,” she said. There was a slight pause. She rose to go. Suddenly Sylvester detained her. “I may as well tell you what all the world will know soon. After paying these legacies there will be nothing left for the residuary legatee save Woodlands, and that is heavily mortgaged. I shall have to sell it.” “Sell Woodlands!” She looked at him aghast. “Why, I thought Uncle Matthew was leaving you a small fortune. It was the dream of his life!” “He has left me, thank God, an infinitely greater inheritance,” said Sylvester. She did not question him, only looked at him blankly, dimly comprehending. Then she reverted to the more easily intelligible. “But to sell Woodlands!” she reiterated. “Impossible! When we were tiny children, he used to talk of your living here after him. You must.” “I haven't the money,” he said sadly. “But I have. I'll buy it. I shall. You needn't laugh. Who in the wide world can prevent me?” “My dear Ella,” he said with a smile, “how would that help matters? I could not live in your house.” “Dorothy and Aunt Agatha could. You could rent it. There are many ways. Anyhow, Uncle Matthew would sooner have it in my hands than in a stranger's. I have made up my mind. It will be my first investment.” And so as to have the last word, she swept across the room and retired. The swish of her skirts had hardly ceased to sound in Sylvester's ears when a servant came in with a letter. It bore no stamp, and was in Roderick's handwriting. “Trotter from the White Hart brought it, sir,” explained the servant. The letter ran:-- _Having received your solicitor's letter concerning the legacy under Mr. Lanyon's will, I came down last evening to see my father. In the course of conversation he revealed to me facts which have literally stunned me. I must see you or write to you. But as these things are best unwritten, perhaps in the utterly unprecedented circumstances you would be willing to bear the pain that such an interview might cause you, and make an appointment to meet me today. I would suggest this hotel. Perhaps I have little right to do so, but, I earnestly beseech you to believe in my good faith. Roderick Usher._ Sylvester read this letter, so uncharacteristic of the man as he had known him, with a recrudescence of implacable feeling. To meet him was hateful. The agony of the journey to Ayresford a week ago came upon him. He crumpled the letter tight in his hand. “He was to wait for an answer, sir,” hazarded the servant, after a time.