ndwriting. He opened the paper at the page indicated and saw the
account of the marriage! His teeth clinched on his cigar, his face
turned white, the paper fell from his fingers. He gasped, his hands
spread out nervously, then caught the table and held it as though to
steady himself.

The trader rose. "You are ill," he said. "Have you bad news?" He glanced
towards the paper. Slowly Armour folded the paper up, and then rose
unsteadily. "Gordon," he said, "give me a glass of brandy."

He turned towards the cupboard in the room. The trader opened it, took
out a bottle, and put it on the table beside Armour, together with a
glass and some water. Armour poured out a stiff draught, added a very
little water, and drank it. He drew a great sigh, and stood looking at
the paper.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Armour?" urged the trader.

"Nothing, thank you, nothing at all. Just leave the brandy here, will
you? I feel knocked about, and I have to go through the rest of these
letters."

He ran his fingers through the pile, turning it over hastily, as if
searching for something. The trader understood. He was a cool-headed
Scotsman; he knew that there were some things best not inquired into,
and that men must have their bad hours alone. He glanced at the brandy
debatingly, but presently turned and left the room in silence. In his
own mind, however, he wished he might have taken the brandy without
being discourteous. Armour had discovered Miss Sherwood's letter. Before
he opened it he took a little more brandy. Then he sat down and read it
deliberately. The liquor had steadied him. The fingers of one hand even
drummed on the table. But the face was drawn, the eyes were hard, and
the look of him was altogether pinched. After he had finished this, he
looked for others from the same hand. He found none. Then he picked out
those from his mother and father. He read them grimly. Once he paused as
he read his mother's letter, and took a gulp of plain brandy. There was
something very like a sneer on his face when he finished reading. He
read the hollowness of the sympathy extended to him; he understood the
far from adroit references to Lady Agnes Martling. He was very bitter.
He opened no more letters, but took up the Morning Post again, and read
it slowly through. The look of his face was not pleasant. There was a
small looking-glass opposite him. He caught sight of himself in it.
He drew his hand across his eyes and forehead