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.
He was out at six o’clock. He made for the stables, and found Jacques pacing the yard. He smiled at Jacques’s dazed look.
“What about the horse, Brillon?” he said, nodding as he came up.
“Saracen’s had a slice of the stable-boy’s shoulder—sir.”
Amusement loitered in Gaston’s eyes. The “sir” had stuck in Jacques’s throat.