“The poor chap wants money, of course,” he thought.  But why go on for ever helping one who had no claim on him, a hopeless case, incurable—­one whom it was his duty to let sink for the good of the community at large?  Ferrand’s vagabond refinement had beguiled him into charity that should have been bestowed on hospitals, or any charitable work but foreign missions.  To give a helping hand, a bit of himself, a nod of fellowship to any fellow-being irrespective of a claim, merely because he happened to be down, was sentimental nonsense!  The line must be drawn!  But in the muttering of this conclusion he experienced a twinge of honesty.  “Humbug!  You don’t want to part with your money, that’s all!”

So, sitting down in shirt-sleeves at his writing table, he penned the following on paper stamped with the Holm Oaks address and crest:  My dear Ferrand,

I am sorry you are having such a bad spell.  You seem to be dead out of luck.  I hope by the time you get this things will have changed for the better.  I should very much like to see you again and have a talk, but shall be away for some time longer, and doubt even when I get back whether I should be able to run down and look you up.  Keep me ’au courant’ as to your movements.  I enclose a cheque.

Yours sincerely,

RichardShelton.

Before he had written out the cheque, a moth fluttering round the candle distracted his attention, and by the time he had caught and put it out he had forgotten that the cheque was not enclosed.  The letter, removed with his clothes before he was awake, was posted in an empty state.

One morning a week later he was sitting in the smoking-room in the company of the gentleman called Mabbey, who was telling him how many grouse he had deprived of life on August 12 last year, and how many he intended to deprive of life on August 12 this year, when the door was opened, and the butler entered, carrying his head as though it held some fatal secret.

“A young man is asking for you, sir,” he said to Shelton, bending down discreetly; “I don’t know if you would wish to see him, sir.”

“A young man!” repeated Shelton; “what sort of a young man?”

“I should say a sort of foreigner, sir,” apologetically replied the butler.  “He’s wearing a frock-coat, but he looks as if he had been walking a good deal.”

Shelton rose with haste; the description sounded to him ominous.

“Where is he?”

“I put him in the young ladies’ little room, sir.”

“All right,” said Shelton; “I ’ll come and see him.  Now, what the deuce!” he thought, running down the stairs.