Suddenly he recollected the letter which he held in his hand, and which he now looked at for the first time.  It proved to be from Madge, and tearing it open hastily, he read it.

“I cannot understand what is the matter with papa,” she wrote.

“Ever since that man Moreland left last night, he hae shut himself up in his study, and is writing there hour after hour.  I went up this morning, but he would not let me in.  He did not come down to breakfast, and I am getting seriously alarmed Come down to-morrow and see me, for I am anxious about his state of health, and I am sure that Moreland told him something which has upset him.”

“Writing,” said Brian, as he put the letter in his pocket, “what about, I wonder?  Perhaps he is thinking of committing suicide! if so, I for one will not stop him.  It is a horrible thing to do, but it would be acting for the best under the circumstances.”

In spite of his determination to see Calton and tell all, Fitzgerald did not go near him that day.  He felt ill and weary, the want of sleep, and mental worry, telling on him terribly, and he looked ten years older than he did before the murder of Whyte.  It is trouble which draws lines on the smooth forehead and furrows round the mouth.  If a man has any mental worry, his life becomes a positive agony to him.  Mental tortures are quite as bad as physical ones, if not worse.  The last thing before dropping off to sleep is the thought of trouble, and with the first faint light of dawn, it returns and hammers all day at the weary brain.  But while a man can sleep, life is rendered at least endurable; and of all the blessings which Providence has bestowed, there is none so precious as that same sleep, which, as wise Sancho Panza says, “Wraps every man like a cloak.”  Brian felt the need of rest, so sending a telegram to Calton to call on him in the morning, and another to Madge, that he would be down to luncheon next day, he stayed indoors all day, and amused himself with smoking and reading.  He went to bed early, and succeeded in having a sound sleep, so when he awoke next morning, he felt considerably refreshed and invigorated.

He was having his breakfast at half-past eight, when he heard the sound of wheels, and immediately afterwards a ring at the bell.  He went to the window, and saw Calton’s trap was at the door.  The owner was shortly afterwards shown into the room.

“Well, you are a nice fellow,” cried Calton, after greetings were over.  “Here I’ve been waiting for you with all the patience of Job, thinking you were still up country.”

“Will you have some breakfast?” asked Brian, laughing at his indignation.

“What have you got?” said Calton, looking over the table.  “Ham and eggs.  Humph!  Your landlady’s culinary ideas are very limited.”

“Most landladies’ ideas are,” retorted Fitzgerald, resuming his breakfast.  “Unless Heaven invents some new animal, lodgers will go on getting beef and mutton, alternated with hash, until the end of the world.”