"Helps," said Mr. Paget, "I have taken that ten thousand pounds out of the business, and it can ill afford to lose it. If news does not come soon we are undone, and all our plotting and planning won't save the old place nor the honor of the old house."
"No fear," muttered Helps. "The news will come. I have bad dreams at night. The house will be saved. Don't you fret, Mr. Paget."
He went out of the room looking as morose and ugly as possible, and Mortimer Paget hurled no blessings after him.
The next day was fraught with tidings. A thick packet lay on the chief's desk, bearing the imprint of the Esperance on it. By the side of the packet was a telegram. He opened the telegram first:—
"Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, 10 a.m.
"Valentine had a son this morning. Both doing well."
The tears absolutely sprang to Mr. Paget's eyes. His hands trembled; he looked round furtively; there was no one by. Then he raised the telegram to his lips and kissed it. Valentine had a son—he had a grandson. Another head of the old house had arisen on the horizon.
He rang his electric bell; he was so excited that he could not keep these tidings to himself.
"I have sent for you to receive your congratulations. Helps," he said; "and—and here's a cheque for ten pounds. You must go home early and have a good supper—champagne and all that sort of thing. Not a word, Helps, my good fellow, you deserve it. You quite deserve it!"
"May I ask what for, Mr. Paget? Forgive me, sir. I see that the packet from the Esperance has come."