“They have their gatherings at ‘the chateau’ in France; and in Italy they have their villégiatura———Ah, there he comes; I hear the clank of the post-bag!” He caught himself quickly, and resumed: “I rather like the villégiatura; there is not much trouble taken to entertain you, but you are free to dispose of yourself how you like. What has kept him so late, Fry?” said he, as the butler entered with the bag; “take it up to my room.”
“Oh, let us hear who has won the Cantelupe!” said Grenfell. “I have backed Grimsby’s horse, Black Ruin, at three to eight against the field.”
“Here’s the key, then,” said Sir Within, with well feigned indifference.
As Grenfell emptied the contents of the bag on the table, a square-shaped, somewhat-heavy packet fell to the floor, at Sir Within’s feet. The old man lifted it up and laid it on the table, but, on doing so, his hand trembled, and his colour changed.
“What about your race—has your horse won?” asked he, as Grenfell turned over the paper to find the sporting intelligence. “Oh, here it is—a dead heat between Black Ruin and Attila. Why, he’s Grimsby’s also. ‘Second heat, Attila walked over.’ What a sell! I see there’s a long letter about it from the correspondent; shall I read it for you?”
“By all means,” said Sir Within, not sorry to give him any occupation at the moment that might screen himself from all scrutiny.
“‘The long-expected match between Lord St. Dunstan’s well-known Carib Chief and Mr. Grimsby’s Black Ruin—for, in reality, the large field of outsiders, fourteen in number, might as well have been cantering over an American savannah—took place yesterday.’” He read on and on—the fluent common-places—about the course crowded with rank and fashion, amongst whom were noticed the usual celebrities of the turf, and was getting to the description of the scene at the weighing stand, when a dull, heavy sound startled him. He looked down, and saw that Sir Within had fallen from his chair to the floor, and lay stretched and motionless, with one arm across the fender.
Lifting him up, Grenfell carried him to a sofa. His face and forehead were crimson, and a strange sound came from the half-open lips, like a faint whistle. “This is apoplexy,” muttered Grenfell; and he turned to ring the bell and summon aid, but, as he did so, he perceived that several papers lay on the floor, and the envelope of a recently-opened packet amongst them. “Ha, here is what has done it!” muttered he to himself; and he held a square-shaped piece of coarse paper to the light and read the following, written in a bold, irregular hand: