"Don't, I beg, worry about your affairs," pursued Dyce, with
kindling eye. "Cut off my supplies, and go quietly on." He stretched
out a soothing hand, palm downwards. "The responsibility for the
future is mine; from to-night I take it upon myself."

Much more in the same vein did Dyce pour forth, obviously believing
every word he said, and deriving great satisfaction from the sound
of his praises. He went to bed, at length, in such a self-approving
frame of mind that no sooner had he laid his head on the pillow than
sweet sleep lapped him about, and he knew nothing more till the
sunlight shimmered at his window.

A letter awaited him at the breakfast table; it had been forwarded
from his London address, and he knew at a glance that it came from
Mrs. Woolstan, the mother of his pupil. The lady, dating from a
house at West Hampstead, wrote thus:

"Dear Mr. Lashmar,
"You will be surprised to hear from me so soon again. I particularly
want to see you. Something has happened which we must talk over at
once. I shall be alone tomorrow afternoon. Do come if you possibly can.

"Sincerely yours,

"IRIS WOOLSTAN."

Dyce had come down in a mood less cheerful than that of over-night.
As happened sometimes, he had slept too soundly; his head was not
quite clear, and his nerves felt rather unsteady. This note from