Court Netherleigh. Mrs. Henry Wood

But he did not proceed to the hotel where he had engaged a bed. On the contrary, he took up his station in a shady nook, whence he could see the door he had just come out of; and there he waited patiently. Presently he saw Robert Dalrymple emerge from it, and betake himself away.

      A little while yet waited Oscar, and then he retraced his steps to the house, and rang the bell. Reuben answered it. A faithful servant, getting in years now. Robert was the third of the family he had served.

      "Reuben, I may have left my note-case in the dining-room," said Oscar. "Can I look for it?"

      The note-case was looked for without success: and Oscar discovered that it was safe in his pocket. Perhaps he knew that all the while.

      "I am sorry to have troubled you for nothing, Reuben. Did I call you out of your bed?"

      "No, no," answered the man, shaking his head. "There's rarely much bed for me before daylight, Mr. Oscar."

      "How's that?"

      "I suppose young men must be young men, sir. I should not mind that; but Mr. Robert is getting into just the habits of his uncle."

      Oscar looked up quickly, "His uncle—Claude Dalrymple?" he asked in a low tone.

      "Ay, he is, sir: and my heart is almost mad at times with fear. If my dear late master was alive, I should just go down to the Grange and tell him everything."

      An idea floated into the mind of Oscar as he listened. Mrs. Dalrymple had not mentioned whence she had heard the rumours of Robert's doings: he now thought it might have been from no other than Reuben. This enabled him to speak out.

      "Reuben," he said, "I came up today at Mrs. Dalrymple's request. She is terribly uneasy about her son. Tell me all, for I have to report it at the Grange. If what we fear be true, something must be done to save him."

      "It is all true, sir, and I wrote to warn my mistress," cried Reuben. "Should things ever come to a crisis with him, as they did with his uncle, I knew Mrs. Dalrymple would blame me bitterly for not having spoken. And I should blame myself."

      Oscar Dalrymple gazed at Reuben, for the man's words had struck ominously on his ear. "Do you fancy—do you fear—things may come to a crisis with him, as they did with his uncle?" he breathed in a low tone.

      "Not in the same way, sir; not as to himself," returned the man, in agitation. "Mr. Oscar, how could you think it?"

      "Nay, Reuben, I think it! Your words alone led to the thought."

      "I meant as to his money, sir. He has fallen into a bad, gambling set, just as Mr. Claude fell. One of them is the very same man: Colonel Haughton. He ruined Mr. Claude, and he is ruining Mr. Robert. He was Captain Haughton then; he is colonel now; but he has sold out of the army long ago. He lives by gambling. I have told Mr. Robert so; but he does not believe me."

      "That's where he is gone tonight."

      "Where he goes every night, Mr. Oscar. Haughton and those men have lured him into their toils, and he can't escape them. He has not the moral courage; and he has the mania for play upon him. He comes home towards morning, flushed and haggard; sometimes in drink—yes, sir, drinking and gaming mostly go together. He appeared laughing and careless before you, but it was all put on."

      "Have you warned him—or tried to stop him?"

      "Yes, sir, once or twice; but it does no good. I don't like to say too much: he might not take it from me. Those harpies won't let him rest; they come hunting after him, just as they hunted his uncle a score, or more, years ago. Nobody ever had a better heart than Mr. Robert; but he is pliable, and gets led away."

      Oscar frowned. He thought Robert had no business to be "led away," and he felt little tolerance for him. Reuben had told all he knew, and Oscar wished him good-night and departed, full of painful thought touching Robert.

      The night passed. In the morning Oscar went to South Audley Street to breakfast. Robert was looking ill and anxious.

      "Been making a night of it?" said Oscar, lightly. "You look as though you had."

      "Yes, I was late. Pour out the coffee, will you, Oscar?"

      His own hands were shaking. Oscar saw it as Robert opened his letters. One of them bore the Netherleigh postmark, and was from Farmer Lee. Oscar hardly knew how to open the ball, or what to say for the best.

      "I'm sure something is disturbing you, Robert. You have had no sleep; that's easy to be seen. What pursuit can you have that it should keep you up all night!"

      "One is never at a loss to kill time in London."

      "I suppose not, if it has to be killed. But I did not know it was necessary to kill that which ought to be spent in sleep. One would think you passed your nights at the gaming-table, Robert."

      The words startled him, and a flush rose to his pallid features. Oscar was gazing at him steadily.

      "Robert, you look conscious. Have you learnt to gamble?"

      "Oh, it's nothing," said Robert, confusedly. "I may play a little now and then."

      "Do not shirk the question. Have you taken to play?"

      "A little, I tell you. Never mind. It's my own affair."

      "You were playing last night?"

      "Well—yes, I was. Very little."

      "Lose or win?" asked Oscar, carelessly.

      "Oh, I lost," answered Robert. "The luck was against me."

      "Now, my good fellow, do you know what you had best do? Go home to Moat Grange, and get out of this set; I know what gamesters are; they never let a pigeon off till he is stripped of his last feather. Leave with me for the Grange today, and cheat them; and stop there until the mania for play shall have left you, though it should be years to come."

      Ah, how heartily Robert Dalrymple wished in his heart that he could do it!—that he could break through the net in which he was involved, in more ways than one! "I cannot go to Moat Grange," he answered.

      "Your reasons."

      "Because I must stay where I am. I wish I had never come—never set up these chambers; I do wish that. But, as I did so, here I am fixed."

      "I cannot think why you did come—flying from your home as soon as your father was under ground. Had you succeeded to twenty thousand a-year, you could but have made hot haste to launch out in the metropolis."

      "I did not come to launch out," returned Robert, angrily. "I came to get rid of myself. It was so wretched down there."

      Oscar stared. "What made it so?"

      "The remembrance of my father. Every face I met, every stick and stone about the place seemed to reproach me with his death. And justly. But for my carelessness he would not have died."

      "Well, that is all past and gone, Robert. You shall come back to the Grange with me. You will be safe there."

      "No. It is too late."

      "It is not too late. What do you mean? If——"

      "I tell you it is too late," burst out Robert, in a sharp tone: and Oscar thought it was full of anguish.

      He tried persuasion, he tried anger; and no impression whatever could he make on Robert Dalrymple. He thought Robert was wilfully, wickedly obstinate; the secret truth being that Robert was ruined. Oscar told him he "washed his hands" of him, and departed.

      It chanced that same afternoon that Robert was passing through Grosvenor Square and met Mr. Grubb close to his house. Looking at him casually, reader, he has not changed; he has the same noble presence, the same gracious manner; nevertheless, the fifteen or sixteen months that have elapsed since his marriage, have brought a look of care to his refined and thoughtful face, a line of pain to his brow. They shook hands.

      "Will you come in, Robert?"

      "I