Having finished this with infinite pains, Mr. Beaumont eyed his work in a very complacent manner. "When that ink is dry," he said, thoughtfully, "it will turn as black as the rest of the writing. I'll wait till to-morrow morning before I put it into the envelope, just to see how the names look by daylight." He took the letter written by the squire to Reginald and also the cheque, and placed them carefully away in one compartment of his pocket-book, then he placed the envelope, the seal-ring and the original document, wide open, in a small despatch-box, so that the ink would dry properly. Having locked the box, he put the key in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and considered his next move. "I must get the letter locked up in the squire's desk," he said to himself. "But how? Very likely Nestley has given the keys to Una Challoner, then there will be no chance. If I can't get the keys to lock it up I'll slip it among some loose papers in the desk to-morrow--but it would look better locked up. I think I'll walk over to the Grange and find out if Nestley has the keys still." On going down stairs, however, he discovered that there was no need for him to walk to the Grange, as he found Nestley seated in the parlour, apparently in very low spirits, drinking hot whisky and water. When he saw Beaumont his face flushed, and he looked away, for the unhappy man, having lost his self-respect, felt his moral degradation keenly. Beaumont, however, pretended not to notice his action, but advancing towards him shook hands warmly, and asked after his health in the friendliest manner possible. Nestley was cold and short in his replies at first, but under the quiet warmth of Beaumont's fascinating manner began to talk more amiably. "Excuse me drinking this hot whisky. It's so very cold, to-night," he said, in a deprecating tone, "and I've had a long walk from the Grange." "Yes, and you'll have a cold walk back," said Beaumont, in a sympathetic manner. "I'm not going back," replied Nestley sadly, looking down at the table. "Not going back," echoed the artist; "why not?" "I've finished my business at the Grange, and it is no use my staying there; besides, Miss Challoner dislikes me so much that it was painful for me to live in the same house with her." "How do you know she dislikes you?" "It's easily seen; her manner is quite sufficient--besides, by persuading me to give way to this again," he added vehemently, touching his glass, "you have caused me to lose all hope and self-respect; every person who looks at me seems to be pitying my downfall." "Well then, give up the drink." "What's the good?" said Nestley despairingly. "I left it off for five years, yet such is my weak nature that I yielded to your persuasions, and now it has got complete mastery of me again." "You seem determined to regard me as your evil genius," said the artist deliberately. "Why I do not know. I suggested a little wine on that evening, in order to cheer you up--that is all."