spoke with the keen decision of his father. Mr. Clisson gazed at
him with pained amazement.

"It is only the leasehold we sell, sir, not the actual land."

"I do not sell land," repeated Christopher sharply.

"Of course, it shall be as you wish, sir."

"Of course. Do you know if Mr. Fegan is still at Stormly Foundry?"

"I can ascertain."

"Do so. If he is, tell him to come and see me here to-morrow. And who
is the best builder you employ?"

"Builder? What kind of builder, sir?"

"Bricks and mortar. Cottages. I don't want an architect. I'll employ
the man we used in Hampshire."

"You mean to build?"

"I mean to build."

Mr. Clisson coughed. "The late Mr. Masters found it did not pay----"

"Mr. Clisson," said Christopher firmly, "let us understand one another
from the beginning. I do not intend to work on the same lines as my
father worked. I intend to do many things which he would not have
done, but I am inclined to think he knew it would be so. I believe I
am a very rich man. At all events I mean to spend a lot of money. You
would have no objection to my spending it on yachts and motors and
grouse moors, I suppose? These things do not, however, interest me.
You probably won't approve of my hobbies, and I've no doubt I shall
make heaps of mistakes, but I've got to find them out myself. You can
help me make them, but once for all, never try to prevent me. Those
are all the letters I can manage to-day. You can take the others. I'll
answer these myself."

The flabbergasted Mr. Clisson rose, trembling a little in his
agitation.

"I hope, Mr. Masters, I should know better than ever attempt to
dictate to you on any matter."

Christopher gave him one of his rare half-shy, half-boyish smiles and
leant forward over the big desk.

"Mr. Clisson, I shall need your help and advice every hour of the day.
I haven't the slightest doubt you could dictate to me to my great
material advantage on every point, only I don't care for this material
advantage and I don't want us to misunderstand each other, that is
all."

Mr. Clisson thawed, but his soul was troubled. He looked at the
letters as he gathered them up. It was a goodly pile yet left to his
decision, but he missed one that Christopher had passed over without
comment.

"The application for the post of gardener at Stormly Park, sir. Did
you wish to attend to that yourself?"

"What has happened to Timmins? Wasn't that his name? Is he dead?"

"Oh, no."

"He