not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the

morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the

other, as fresh and trim as possible.


“You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he,

“but you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this

morning.”


“Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be

surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring.”


It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had

come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould,

was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade

whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful

than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the

armchair which I pushed forward for him.


“I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he.

“Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in

the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes

close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me.”


“Deserted you?”


“Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and

a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow

and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with

him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she

refers in this note:


“‘MY DEAREST UNCLE,—I feel that I have brought trouble

upon you, and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might

never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be

happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry

about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not search for

me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in