“That can be arranged without your going to Tretton.”

“By putting our heads together I think we can contrive that the deed shall be more effectually performed.  What we must attempt to do is to save this property from going to the gambling-table.  There is only one way that occurs to me.”

“What is that?”

“It must be left to his wife.”

“He hasn’t a wife.”

“It must be left to some woman whom he will consent to marry.  There are three objects:—­to keep it from Augustus; to give the enjoyment of it to Mountjoy; and to prevent Mountjoy from gambling with it.  The only thing I can see is a wife.”

“There is a girl he wants to marry,” said Dolly.

“But she doesn’t want to marry him, and I doubt whether he can be got to marry any one else.  There is still a peck of difficulties.”

“Oh, papa, I wish you would wash your hands of the Scarboroughs.”

“I must go to Tretton first,” said he.  “And now, my dear, you are doing no good by sitting up here and talking to me.”  Then, with a smile, Dolly took herself off to her own chamber.

Mountjoy, when he got his letter, was sitting over a late breakfast in Victoria Street.  It was near twelve o’clock, and he was enjoying the delicious luxury of having his breakfast to eat, with a cigar after it, and nothing else that he need do.  But the fruition of all these comforts was somewhat marred by the knowledge that he had no such dinner to expect.  He must go out and look for a dinner among the eating-houses.  The next morning would bring him no breakfast, and if he were to remain longer in Victoria Street he must do so in direct opposition to the owner of the establishment.  He had that morning received notice to quit, and had been told that the following breakfast would be the last meal served to him.  “Let it be good of its kind,” Mountjoy had said.

“I believe you care for nothing but eating and drinking.”

“There’s little else that you can do for me.”  And so they had parted.

Mountjoy had taken the precaution of having his letters addressed to the house of the friendly bootmaker; and now, as he was slowly pouring out his first cup of coffee, and thinking how nearly it must be his last, his father’s letter was brought to him.  The letter had been delayed one day, as he himself had omitted to call for it.  It was necessarily a sad time for him.  He was a man who fought hard against melancholy, taking it as a primary rule of life that, for such a one as he had become, the pleasures of the immediate moment should suffice.  If one day, or better still, one night of excitement was in store for him, the next day should be regarded as the unlimited future, for which no man can be responsible.  But such philosophy will too frequently be insufficient for the stoutest hearts.  Mountjoy’s heart would occasionally almost give way, and then his thoughts would be dreary enough.  Hunger, absolute hunger, without the assured expectation of food, had never yet come upon him; but in order to put a stop to its cravings, if he should find it troublesome to bear, he had already provided himself with pistol and bullets.