ld gentleman's way. Therefore he allowed Bertie to go to
Brighton, with permission to remain as long as his uncle and aunt
required him, and telegraphed to his wife to send his second son Dick
up to town without delay.

"Harry must go to Oxford and get into Parliament," he said to
himself, "and I must sacrifice Dick to his interest and advancement."
It was a singular thing Mr. Gregory never thought it the least
sacrifice to place Bertie Rivers in his office, even when he was
younger and worse educated than his own son. "Bertie is a smart,
industrious lad, with better business capacity than Dick," he
reflected, as he watched Bertie go through his morning's work,
apparently oblivious to everything outside, forgetful of his stiff
limbs, sore throat, hard words, and, worst of all, the terrible
telegram from Brighton; he simply crushed the thoughts down and did
his work steadily, till his uncle told him it was time to go to the
station.

"Good-bye. I hope you will find Mr. Clair better," he said,
ungraciously enough. "Watts, get a hansom, and be quick."

Bertie needed no second bidding to go, and as he left the office it
was with an earnest wish that he might never have to enter it again.
He little knew that his uncle's thoughts at the same moment were, "I
hope he may never come back; or if he does, I hope Dick will be with
Mr. Murray."

That gentleman meantime had driven round to Gore House about eleven
o'clock, with the intention of taking Bertie out for a couple of
hours, and so studying his manners and temper, but to his
astonishment, he learned the boy had driven into town with his uncle,
and was going down to Brighton to see his other uncle, who was
dangerously ill. James had consulted the telegram he found on the
breakfast-table, and from it and the fragments of conversation he
picked up, knew pretty accurately what Master Bertie's movements were
going to be. "He's going down by the twelve train, sir, but he looks
more fit to be in his bed," James continued. "I believe he's caught a
violent cold: he was that hoarse to-day, and his face as white as
milk; and he had no breakfast."

Mr. Murray listened in silence, only nodding his head gravely every
few seconds, then he told his coachman to drive him at once to London
Bridge Station; there he would find out the truth as to whether
Bertie was ill or going to Brighton, and act accordingly. But the
City was very crowded, his carriage frequently got blocked, and he
o