all was done, he returned them slowly to the envelope
and handed it back.

"Well?" said Roger, rather impatiently.

"It is a strange birthday greeting," said Mr Armstrong, "and comes, I
fear, from a mind unhinged. Your father had more than one delusion near
the end. But on the night before he died he told me this elder son of
his was dead. This was written before that."

"Tell me exactly what he said."

The tutor repeated as nearly as he could the conversation of that
memorable night.

"Is it not more probable that a fortnight earlier his mind might be
clearer than at the very moment of his death?"

"It is possible, of course; but the letter does not seem to show it.
Besides, the inscription at the back of the portrait (which you have
forgotten) is a distinct record of the boy's death. I wish you had not
shown me the letter, because the only advice I have to give you is that
you do with it what he invites you to do."

"Look here, Armstrong!" said Roger, getting up and walking restlessly up
and down the room; "you mean kindly, I know--you always do--but you
don't seem to realise that you are tempting me to be a cad and a
coward!"

The tutor looked up, and his eyebrow twitched uncomfortably. Roger had
never spoken like this before, and the heat of the words took even him
aback.

"You asked my advice, unfortunately, and I gave it," said he, rather
drily.

"Do you think I should have an hour's peace if I didn't do everything in
my power to find my brother now?" retorted the boy. "You're not obliged
to help me, I know."

"I am--I am bound to help you; not because I am your tutor or your
guardian, but because I love you."

"Then help me in this. My father, I feel sure, was right. Whether he
was or not, and whether I have to do it single-handed or not, I mean to
find my brother."

"Certainly you may count on me, old fellow," said the tutor; "but be
quite sure first that you know what you are undertaking. If it is not a
wild-goose chase it is something uncommonly like it. You resolve to
waste a whole year. You are not strong, your future is all in Maxfield;
the happiness of your mother, your hopes of winning the object of your
affections, are involved in the step you take. Even if this brother of
yours be living (of which the chances seem to be a hundred to one he is
not), he is, as your father says, a man who has gone to the bad; not the
boy of the picture, but a man twice your age, of the Ratman