ion from
his father. He jumped up, hastily donned some clothes, and carried a
light along to the room, wisely thinking that if it was only a picture
that had fallen he need not alarm the whole household. At the same
time he went cautiously, for he did not wish to be seized by the throat
unawares.

He found the dining-room door open, and something, in the dark inside,
lying prone on the floor. He pushed forward his candle, and to his
horror found it was Mrs. Alfred, who was slowly raising herself by both
hands.

'Oh, ma'am, what has happened?' he cried.

'Be quiet. Where's the brandy?' she said, angrily; and then she put
her hand to the side of her forehead. 'I've struck my head against
something.'

This young man was a miracle of discretion, but he was startled. She
did not talk incoherently, and yet she could not rise.

'Is it Mr. Alfred, ma'am? Shall I take him some brandy? I hope he
isn't ill, ma'am?' he said in a breath.

'Mr. Alfred, you fool! He's been dead drunk in bed for more than an
hour. Where's the brandy? Why don't you leave the spirit-stand out,
you miserly thief?'

Then he saw how matters stood; and though he was frightened a little,
he was prudent. He went and got some brandy and water in a tumbler; he
coaxed her to go upstairs; he assisted her up; and then, having put her
quietly into her room, he returned downstairs, and locked the
dining-room door, putting the key in his pocket.

This incident the young butler kept discreetly to himself; he was not
going to imperil his situation by telling such a story about his future
master and mistress. All the same, the old father and mother began to
grow very uneasy. Mrs. Alfred was too unwell to appear next day, nor
would she see any one. She wanted brandy, however, to keep her system
up. The following day the same legend was repeated. On the evening of
that day Alfred King sought out his father in the study, and said he
wanted to speak to him.

'Look here, father, it's no use. I'll tell the truth. I came down
here to humbug you, and get some more money out of you. But what's the
good?--if Jinny had the wealth of the Rothschilds she'd run through it
in a fortnight; and then her first trick would be to cut me. Oh, I
know her; she's not a bad sort; but she's been brought up to be what
she is, and she doesn't mean anything shabby, anything more than a cat
thinks itself cruel when it plays with a mouse. Well, no matter.'

He rang