said Reginald; "my father's no better off than
a lot of other people."

"That's a mild way of putting it, anyhow," said Blandford.

And here the conversation ended.

The boys lay basking in the sun waiting for Horace's return. He was
unusually long in coming.

"Seems to me," said Blandford, "he's trying how long he can be instead
of how quick--for a variety."

"Just like him," said Reginald.

Five minutes passed away, and ten, and fifteen, and then, just as the
boys were thinking of stirring themselves to inquire what had become of
him, they heard his steps returning rapidly down the gravel walk.

"Well," cried Reginald, without sitting up, "have you got them at last?"

Horace's voice startled them all as he cried,--

"Reg! Reg! come quick, quick!"

There was no mistaking either the tones or the white face of the boy who
uttered them.

Reginald was on his feet in an instant, rushing in the direction of the
house, towards which his brother had already started.

"What is it, Horace?" he said as he overtook him.

"Something about father--a telegram," gasped the other.

Not another word was spoken as they ran on and reached the hall door.

The hall door stood open. Just outside on the hot stone steps lay the
towels where Horace had dropped them five minutes ago. Carlo, the dog,
lay across the mat, and lazily lifted his head as his master approached.
Within stood Mrs Cruden, pale and trembling, with a telegram in her
hand, and in the back-ground hovered three or four servants, with
mingled curiosity and anxiety on their faces.

Despite the heat, Reginald shivered as he stood a moment at the door,
and then sprang towards the telegram, which his mother gave into his
hand. It was from Mr Cruden's coachman, dated from Saint Nathaniel's
Hospital.

"Master was took ill driving from City--brought here, where he is very
bad indeed. Doctor says no hope."

One needs to have received such a message oneself to understand the
emotions with which the two brothers read and re-read the pitiless
words. Nothing but their own hard breathing broke the stillness of
those few minutes, and who knows in that brief space what a lifetime
seemed crowded?

Horace was the first to recover his self-possession.

"Mother," said he, and his voice sounded strange and startling in the
silence, "there's a train to the City in five minutes. I'll go by
that."

And he was off. It was three-quarters of a mile to the station, an