He smiled whimsically, as a father does at a son who has for once gone beyond the strict bounds of moderation and looked upon the wine cup too often.

“Yes, I’ve rather a head on this morning, sir,” said Stafford, quietly, accepting the suggestion as an excuse for his ill-looks.  “I drank and smoked, last night, more than I usually do.  You look as fresh as usual, sir,” he added, with unconscious irony.

Sir Stephen threw up his head with a short laugh.

“Oh, my work wasn’t finished last night, my dear boy!” he said.  “And Murray and I have been at it since seven o’clock.  I want to put some of these papers straight before Griffenberg and the rest leave to-day.”

“They are going to-day?” said Stafford.

“Oh, yes; there will be a general exodus.  A great many of the people were only staying on until we could be sure we had pulled this railway scheme through.  Falconer and his daughter—­I beg your pardon, my dear Stafford, I mean Maude!—­talk of going to-day.  But I persuaded them to stay until to-morrow.  I thought you would like to go to London with them.”

He smiled as a father smiles when he is planning a pleasure for his son.

“Yes, I should like it,” said Stafford, quietly.  “But could I leave you here?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sir Stephen.  “They’ll entertain themselves.  Besides, it was an understood thing you should be free to go and come as you pleased.  Of course, you would like to go with Maude.”

“Of course,” echoed Stafford, his eyes on the ground.  As he was leaving the room his father took a letter from the table, held it up and dropped it.

“You’ll be wanting to buy a little present for your lady-love, Stafford,” he said.  “I am placing a thousand pounds to your credit at your bank, I don’t know whether you’ll think that is enough—­”

“Quite enough,” said Stafford, in a low voice.  “Thank you!  You are very generous—­”

Sir Stephen winced and held up his hand.

“What is mine is yours from this moment, my dear Stafford,” he said.

Stafford went out by the door at the other end of the hall, and made his way to the stables.  Just as he was crossing the lawn the temptation to ride over to Heron Hall and leave the note himself assailed him strongly.  He took the letter from his pocket and looked at it wistfully.  But he knew that he dared not ran the risk of meeting Ida, and with a sigh he went on towards the stables, carrying the note in his hand.  And as he turned away Maude Falconer let fall the curtain which she had raised at her window so that she might watch him.

She stood for a moment with her costly dressing-gown held together with one white hand, her lids half closed.

“He has written to her,” she said to herself.  “Has he broken with her for good, or will he try and keep her?  I would give something to see that letter, to know exactly how he stands.  And how I stand!  I wonder how he will send it?  He is taking it to the stables.”  She thought a moment, then she smiled.  “Pottinger!” she murmured.