Falloden walked into the deserted and dust-sheeted house, while the cabman brought in his portmanteau.  “Is Mr. Gregory here?” he enquired of the maid.

“Yes, sir, he is in the library.  Please, sir, Mrs. O’Connor wants to know if you’ll want dinner.”

Falloden impatiently said “No,” and walked on down a long passage to the library, which had been built out at the back of the house.  Here the blinds had been drawn up, only to reveal the dusty desolation of an unused room, in which a few chairs had been uncovered, and a table cleared.  A man rose from a chair beside the table, and he and Falloden shook hands.  He was a round-faced and broad-shouldered person, with one of the unreadable faces developed by the life of a prominent solicitor, in contact with all sorts of clients and many varieties of business; and Falloden’s sensitive pride had soon detected in his manner certain shades of expression to which the heir of Flood Castle was not accustomed.

“I am sorry to hear Sir Arthur is not well.”  Mr. Gregory spoke politely, but perhaps without that accent of grave and even tragic concern which six months earlier he would have given to the same words.  “There is a great deal of heavy, and, I am afraid, disagreeable business to be done.”

“My father is not fit for it,” said Falloden abruptly.  “I must do the best I can.”

Mr. Gregory gave a sign of assent.  He drew a packet of documents from his pocket, and spreading out a letter from Sir Arthur Falloden on the table, proceeded to deal with the points in it seriatim.  Falloden sat beside him, looking carefully through the various documents handed to him, asking questions occasionally, and making notes of his own.  In the dusty northern light of the room, his face had a curiously purple and congested look; and his eyes were dead tired.  But he showed so much shrewdness in his various remarks that the solicitor secretly admitted his capacity, reflecting indeed once or twice that, young as he was, it would have been a good thing if his father had taken him into counsel earlier.  After the discussion had lasted half an hour, Falloden pushed the papers away.

“I think I see.  The broad facts are that my father can raise no more money, either on his securities, or on the land; his two banks are pressing him; and the Scotch mortgages must be paid.  The estates, of course, will have to be sold.  I am quite willing.”

“So I understand.  But it will take time and the bank overdrafts are urgent.  Mason’s Bank declare that if their debt is not paid—­or freshly secured—­within a month from now, they will certainly take proceedings.  I must remind you they have been exceedingly forbearing.”

“And the amount?” Falloden consulted his papers.

“Forty thousand.  The securities on which Sir Arthur obtained it are now not worth more than eight.”

The lawyer paused a moment, looked at his companion, and at last said—­