‘Philip Debenham, one charge I give you: take care of your sister. As girls go, she is a good girl; but what can a woman do? I have left her no fortune, because it would only add fuel to the flame of Belassis’ determination to make her his son’s wife. I trust to you to stop that marriage, and to make over to her the fortune she will thus lose. If you are a man of honour, you will do this. When Maud is twenty-four, her choice has to be made—you must be there to counsel and support her. Belassis is a crafty, determined man; and Maud is but a woman, and women will marry anything. You must never let a Debenham mate with a Belassis. ‘I have no more to say. Most likely you will be too idle and too selfish to carry out a dead man’s wishes. Be that as it may, my duty is to speak. You must heed or not, as you will. ‘T. M. MAYNARD. ‘Ladywell Manor, March 3rd, 1872’ ‘A charming old man,’ was Tor’s comment as he laid down the letter. Then he glanced at Phil once more, and fell into deep thought. ‘What a confounded piece of ill-luck that sunstroke was! What in the world is to happen I don’t see yet. He may be weeks or months recovering, and who will meantime manage his affairs? Will it be the executors?—or will it be that worthy Belassis? I don’t know the law, so I can’t say. Here are two more letters still unopened. Will they throw any light on the situation? That is from Maud, by the writing; this, if I rightly conjecture, from Uncle Belassis. Let us see what he has to say for himself.’ Tor opened the letter and read: ‘MY DEAR PHILIP, ‘Now that we are at last furnished with your address, I hasten to be amongst the first to offer my very warm and sincere congratulations to you upon your accession to this very handsome property; and to assure you that, in spite of my silence during these years of your wanderings in foreign lands, I have taken a very warm, almost paternal interest in your well-being, and am truly pleased that at last you will be able to return to England and settle amongst us in a position you are so well calculated to adorn.’ ‘The old humbug!’ muttered Tor; ‘the last time he saw Phil he was an urchin of ten. Much he knows what he is qualified to do. He is every bit as bad as Maud’s letters have always led us to suppose. What more has he to say?’ ‘I do not know whether this change in your affairs may induce you to quit your wandering life and settle down; but I presume you will elect to visit your property, which in your absence I am looking after for you, to the best of my ability, and which I shall always be happy to do whenever you wish to be from home.’ ‘The devil you will!’ muttered Tor. ‘I fancy Phil will have something to say as to that. He forgets he is eight-and-twenty, and not ten. He thinks he can arrange matters just as he chooses.’