But he blotted his letter and put his papers by, and pushing his writing-chair away from the table settled himself comfortably for a chat. He was full of small interests this morning. There had been fine doings, he had learned, the evening before, at the Town Council. The idiots had actually voted against the Free Library that he had schemed out in every particular. Hodgkins, the progressive butcher, whose face was like a hollyhock, had said that he blushed to bear the name of Englishman in common with them. Matthew wondered how he did it. All the same, he must get about again and put some sense into the Council. “I don't quite know why they listen to me, but they do,” he said. Then there were other matters. Jenkins's wife was laid up. That made the tenth child. Would Sylvester make arrangements for the three youngest children to board with the Jellicoes as usual? “Can Jenkins afford it?” asked Sylvester. “Of course not. Otherwise what would be the sense of our arranging things?” Sylvester assented. The old man launched out into an invective against all the ne'er-do-weels of Ayresford who procreated large families which they could not support and spent their small earnings in drink. The brutes! Boiling oil was too dreamy a death for them. As Sylvester knew that any man of them would, if bidden, have licked his father's boots, he smoked his pipe imperturbably, unaffected by this outburst of ferocity. “I suppose all this is pretty parochial,” said Matthew, at length, “but it's a bit of the cosmos, anyhow.” There was a knock at the door, and one of his clerks appeared with a small leather-covered book. Matthew took it from him and laid it on the table. “Take all this stuff to Mr. Findlay,” he said, indicating a pile of papers. The clerk gathered them up and withdrew. Matthew continued his parable, but his fingers played with the banker's pass-book. “Excuse me for a moment, while I see how the balance stands,” he said at last. Sylvester nodded and stretched himself comfortably behind the morning paper. A few moments passed. Then suddenly he heard a choking sound and the violent creak of a chair. He started to his feet. There was his father fallen limp over the arm of the chair, while from his nerveless fingers a strip of pink paper fluttered to the ground. CHAPTER XVI--AT BAY It was not until the evening that Sylvester entered the library again. His father was still unconscious, likely to remain so for many hours. Matthew's ordinary medical adviser had consulted with Sylvester. A trained nurse telegraphed for from London had just arrived. At present nothing more could be done. Possibly the stricken man might recover. But the case was grave.