Yours, J.

He knew the writing very well--Jock Lawson's. There had been some
trouble, and Mr. Ian had "been," bringing peril. What was it? His
father and Jock had kept the secret from him.

He put his hand in the pocket again. There was another note--this time
in a woman's handwriting:

Oh, come to me, if you would save us both! Do not fail. God help
us! Oh, Robert!

It was signed "Agnes."

Well, here was something of mystery; but he did not trouble himself about
that. He was not at Ridley Court to solve mysteries, to probe into the
past, to set his father's wrongs right; but to serve himself, to reap for
all those years wherein his father had not reaped. He enjoyed life, and
he would search this one to the full of his desires. Before he retired
he studied the room, handling things that lay where his father placed
them so many years before. He was not without emotions in this, but he
held himself firm.

As he stood ready to get into bed, his eyes chanced upon a portrait of
his uncle Ian.

"There's where the tug comes!" he said, nodding at it. "Shake hands,
and ten paces, Uncle Ian?"

Then he blew out the candle, and in five minutes was sound asleep.