After a time I became calmer and listened while he told me of the death of the stately Sir Barnard and his eldest son.  They had gone away together on a trip to Italy.  Miles Trevelyan was very fond of pictures, and his father had given him permission to buy what he pleased for the great picture gallery at Crown Anstey.

They went together to Florence, where a fearful epidemic was raging.  They, all unconscious of it, remained there for one night, caught it, and in two days both lay dead.

I asked how old was Miles, this eldest and favorite son.  He told me twenty-seven.  I asked again, had he never been married.  He answered no; that, of course, if he had been married and had children, I should not be the heir to Crown Anstey.

“There was some little unpleasantness between father and son over a love affair,” said Mr. Moreland.  “I do not know the particulars.  Mr. Miles Trevelyan was very proud and reserved.  He mentioned it to us, but we heard no more of it.”

“What am I to do next?” I asked him, nervously.

“You ought to go down at once to Crown Anstey.  The bodies of the two gentlemen will be brought home for interment.  They died on the 18th; this is the 22d.  We spent three days in trying to find out your address.  They will be at Crown Anstey, I should say, to-morrow.  You should be there to receive them and to officiate as head mourner.  Mr. Paine and myself will both be there, as a matter of course.”

“Then I must ask Mr. Lawson’s permission,” I said, doubtfully.

Mr. Moreland laughed.

“He will soon give you that.  You will find the master of Crown Anstey a powerful personage.”

“There is another thing,” I said, with a crimson flush burning my face; “I have but five shillings and sixpence in all the world.”

He laughed aloud at this.

“I can advance you whatever you like, then—­five hundred pounds or more.”

The very mention of such a sum positively frightened me.  Mr. Moreland looked very much amused.

“It will be some time,” he said, “before you grow accustomed to ten thousand a year.”

At that moment we were interrupted by the arrival of another client.  I rose to take my leave, with a check for three hundred pounds in my hand.

“You will go down to Crown Anstey to-night?” said Mr. Moreland, as he shook hands with me.  “We shall be there to-morrow morning.  You will make what arrangements seem best to you over the funeral.”

So I went away, the most bewildered man in London.  As I re-entered the office I felt ashamed of my suspicions over my fellow-clerks.  They were all busy, while I—­oh, heaven! could it be true?

Mr. Lawson evidently thought I had been drinking when I went, white and stammering, confused and hesitating, into his room.  He looked very sternly at me.

“What do you want, Mr. Trevelyan?  I am very busy.”

I took out the letter again and laid it before him.