When the girls and Aunt Letty went to their chambers that night, Herbert returned to his mother\'s own dressing-room, and there, seated over the fire with her, discussed the matter of his father\'s sudden attack. He had been again with his father, and Sir Thomas had seemed glad to have him there; but now he had left him for the night.

"He will sleep now, mother," said the son; "he has taken laudanum."

"I fear he takes that too often now."

"It was good for him to have it to-night. He did not get too much, for I dropped it for him." And then they sat silent for a few moments together.

"Mother," said Herbert, "who can this man have been?"

"I have no knowledge—no idea—no guess even," said Lady Fitzgerald.

"It is that man\'s visit that has upset him."

"Oh, certainly. I think there is no doubt of that. I was waiting for the man to go, and went in almost before he was out of the house."

"Well?"

"And I found your father quite prostrated."

"Not on the floor?"

"No, not exactly on the floor. He was still seated on his chair, but his head was on the table, over his arms."

"I have often found him in that way, mother."

"But you never saw him looking as he looked this morning, Herbert. When I went in he was speechless, and he remained so, I should say, for some minutes."

"Was he senseless?"

"No; he knew me well enough, and grasped me by the hand; and when I would have gone to the bell to ring for assistance, he would not let me. I thought he would have gone into a fit when I attempted it."

"And what did you do?"

"I sat there by him, with his hand in mine, quite quietly. And then he uttered a long, deep sigh, and—oh, Herbert!"

"Well, mother?"

"At last, he burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed and cried like a child."

"Mother!"

"He did, so that it was piteous to see him. But it did him good, for he was better after it. And all the time he never let go my hand, but held it and kissed it. And then he took me by the waist, and kissed me, oh, so often. And all the while his tears were running like the tears of a girl." And Lady Fitzgerald, as she told the story, could not herself refrain from weeping.

"And did he say anything afterwards about this man?"

"Yes; not at first, that is. Of course I asked him who he was as soon as I thought he could bear the question. But he turned away, and merely said that he was a stupid man about some old London business, and that he should have gone to Prendergast. But when, after a while, I pressed him, he said that the man\'s name was Mollett, and that he had, or pretended to have, some claim upon the city property."

"A claim on the city property! Why, it\'s not seven hundred a year altogether. If any Mollett could run away with it all, that loss would not affect him like that."

"So I said, Herbert; not exactly in those words, but trying to comfort him. He then put it off by declaring that it was the consciousness of his inability to see any one on business which affected him so grievously."

"It was that he said to me."

"And there may be something in that, Herbert."

"Yes; but then what should make him so weak, to begin with? If you remember, mother, he was very well,—more like himself than usual last night."

"Oh, I observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond there."

"Didn\'t he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara Desmond is such a sweet creature." The mother looked at her son as he said this, but the son did not notice the look. "I do wonder what the real truth can be," he continued. "Do you think there is anything wrong about the property in general? About this estate, here?"

"No, I don\'t think that," said the mother, sadly.

"What can it be then?" But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and did not answer the question. "I\'ll tell you what I will do, mother; I\'ll go up to London, and see Prendergast, and consult him."

"Oh, no; you mustn\'t do that. I am wrong to tell you all this, for he told me to talk to no one. But it would kill me if I didn\'t speak of it to you."

"All the same, mother, I think it would be best to consult Prendergast."

"Not yet, Herbert. I dare say Mr. Prendergast may be a very good sort of man, but we none of us know him. And if, as is very probable, this is only an affair of health, it would be wrong in you to go to a stranger. It might look—"

"Look what, mother?"

"People might think—he, I mean—that you wanted to interfere."

"But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don\'t?"

"Quite true, dearest; I understand what you mean, and know how good you are. But perhaps Mr. Prendergast might not. He might think you wanted—"

"Wanted what, mother? I don\'t understand you."

"Wanted to take the things out of your father\'s hands."

"Oh, mother!"

"He doesn\'t know you. And, what is more, I don\'t think he knows much of your father. Don\'t go to him yet." And Herbert promised that he would not.

"And you don\'t think that this man was ever here before?" he asked.

"Well, I rather think he was here once before; many years ago—soon after you went to school."

"So long ago as that?"

"Yes; not that I remember him, or, indeed, ever knew of his coming then, if he did come. But Jones says that she thinks she remembers him."

"Did Jones see him now?"

"Yes; she was in the hall as he passed through on his way out. And it so happened that she let him in and out too when he came before. That is, if it is the same man."

"That\'s very odd."

"It did not happen here. We were at Tenby for a few weeks in the summer."

"I remember; you went there with the girls just when I went back to school."

"Jones was with us, and Richard. We had none other of our own servants. And Jones says that the same man did come then; that he stayed with your father for an hour or two; and that when he left, your father was depressed—almost as he was yesterday. I well remember that. I know that a man did come to him at Tenby; and—oh, Herbert!"

"What is it, mother? Speak out at any rate to me."

"Since that man came to him at Tenby he has never been like what he was before."

And then there was more questioning between them about Jones and her remembrances. It must be explained that Jones was a very old and very valued servant. She had originally been brought up as a child by Mrs. Wainwright, in that Dorsetshire parsonage, and had since remained firm to the fortunes of the young lady, whose maid she had become on her first marriage. As her mistress had been promoted, so had Jones. At first she had been Kitty to all the world, now she was Mrs. Jones to the world at large, Jones to Sir Thomas and her mistress and of late years to Herbert, and known by all manner of affectionate sobriquets to the young ladies. Sometimes they would call her Johnny, and sometimes the Duchess; but doubtless they and Mrs. Jones thoroughly understood each other. By the whole establishment Mrs. Jones was held in great respect, and by the younger portion in extreme awe. Her breakfast and tea she had in a little sitting-room by herself; but the solitude of this was too tremendous for her to endure at dinner-time. At that meal she sat at the head of the table in the servants\' hall, though she never troubled herself to carve anything except puddings and pies, for which she had a great partiality, and of which she was supposed to be the most undoubted and severe judge known of anywhere in that part of the country.

She was supposed by all her brother and sister servants to be a very Cr?sus for wealth; and wondrous tales were told of the money she had put by. But as she was certainly honest, and supposed to be very generous to certain poor relations in Dorsetshire, some of these stories were probably mythic. It was known, however, as a fact, that two Castle Richmond butlers, one out-door steward, three neighbouring farmers, and one wickedly ambitious coachman, had endeavoured to tempt her to matrimony—in vain. "She didn\'t want none of them," she told her mistress. "And, what was more, she wouldn\'t have none of them." And therefore she remained Mrs. Jones, with brevet rank.

It seemed, from what Lady Fitzgerald said, that Mrs. Jones\'s manner had been somewhat mysterious about this man, Mollett. She had endeavoured to reassure and comfort her mistress, saying that nothing would come of it as nothing had come of that other Tenby visit, and giving it as her counsel that the ladies should allow the whole matter to pass by without further notice. But at the same time Lady Fitzgerald had remarked that her manner had been very serious when she first said that she had seen the man before.

"Jones," Lady Fitzgerald had said to her, very earnestly, "if you know more about this man than you are telling me, you are bound to speak out, and let me know everything."

"Who—I, my lady? what could I know? Only he do look to me like the same man, and so I thought it right to say to your ladyship."

Lady Fitzgerald had seen that there was nothing more to be gained by cross-questioning, and so she had allowed the matter to drop. But she was by no means satisfied that this servant whom she so trusted did not know more than she had told. And then Mrs. Jones had been with her in those dreadful Dorsetshire days, and an undefined fear began to creep over her very soul.

"God bless you, my child!" said Lady Fitzgerald, as her son got up to leave her. And then she embraced him with more warmth even than was her wont. "All that we can do at present is to be gentle with him, and not to encourage people around him to talk of his illness."

On the next morning Lady Fitzgerald did not come down to breakfast, but sent her love to Clara, and begged her guest to excuse her on account of headache. Sir Thomas rarely came in to breakfast, and therefore his absence was not remarkable. His daughters, however, went up to see him, as did also his sister; and they all declared that he was very much better.

"It was some sudden attack, I suppose?" said Clara.

"Yes, very sudden; he has had the same before," said Herbert. "But they do not at all affect his intellect or bodily powers. Depression is, I suppose, the name that the doctors would call it."

And then at last it became noticeable by them that Lady Clara did not use her left arm. "Oh, Clara!" said Emmeline, "I see now that you are hurt. How selfish we have been! Oh dear, oh dear!" And both Emmeline and Mary immediately surrounded her, examining her arm, and almost carrying her to the sofa.

"I don\'t think it will be much," said Clara. "It\'s only a little stiff."

"Oh, Herbert, what shall we do? Do look here; the inside of her arm is quite black."

Herbert, gently touching her hand, did examine the arm, and declared his opinion that she had received a dreadfully viole............