David Christie Murray was born at West Bromwich, England, April 13, 1847, and began his journalistic career at Birmingham.  In 1873 he moved to London and joined the staff of the “Daily News” and in 1878 he was correspondent of the “Times” and the “Scotsman” in the Russo-Turkish war.  He now began to transfer his abundant experience of life to the pages of fiction.  His first novel, “A Life’s Atonement,” was published in 1880, and was followed a year later by “Joseph’s Coat.”  In “The Way of the World,” published in 1884, his art as a story-teller and his keen observation of men and manners were displayed as strikingly as in any of his later works—­ several of which were written in collaboration with other authors.  Altogether he produced over thirty volumes of short stories and novels single-handed.  At the end of last century he emerged from his literary seclusion in Wales and became active in current affairs; he was one of the leading English champions of Dreyfus, and obtained the warm friendship of Emile Zola.  He died on August 1, 1907.

I.—­The Upstart

Your sympathies are requested for Mr. Bolsover Kimberley, a gentleman embarrassed beyond measure.

Mr. Kimberley was thirty-five years of age.  He was meek, and had no features to speak of.  His hair was unassuming, and his whiskers were too shy to curl.  He was a clerk in a solicitor’s office in the town of Gallowbay, and he seemed likely to live to the end of his days in the pursuit of labours no more profitable or pretentious.

A cat may look at a king.  A solicitor’s clerk may love an earl’s daughter.  It was an undeniable madness in Kimberley even to dream of loving the Lady Ella Santerre.  He knew perfectly well what a fool he was; but he was in love for all that.

To Bolsover Kimberley, seated in a little room with a dingy red desk and cobwebbed skylight, there entered Mr. Ragshaw, senior clerk to Messrs. Begg, Batter, and Bagg, solicitors.

“My dear Mr. Kimberley,” said Mr. Ragshaw, “allow me the honour of shaking hands with you.  I believe that I am the first bearer of good news.”

Mr. Kimberley turned pale.

“My firm, sir,” pursued Mr. Ragshaw, “represented the trustees of the late owner of the Gallowbay Estate, who died three months ago at the age of twenty, leaving no known relatives.  We instituted a search, which resulted in the discovery of an indisputable title to the estate.  Permit me to congratulate you, sir—­the estate is yours.”

Bolsover Kimberley gasped, and his voice was harsh.

“How much?”

“The estate, sir, is now approximately valued at forty-seven thousand per annum.”

Kimberley lurched forward, and fell over in a dead faint.  Mr. Ragshaw’s attentions restored him to his senses, and he drank a little water, and sobbed hysterically.

When he had recovered a little, he arose weakly from the one office chair, took off his office coat, rolled it up neatly, and put it in his desk.  Then he put on his walking coat and his hat and went out.