The more he looked at the position of affairs, the less
he liked it. He wrote a dozen letters, and tore them up again.
He thought of making Red Mick a sporting offer of, say, a couple of
hundred pounds, to disappear altogether--Mick could have arranged
that easily enough. Then he thought of going down to see Mr. Grant
to explain; but the more he thought of that the less he liked it.
He worried and worried over it, and when he went to bed lay awake
thinking about it. He fell into dozes, and dreamt that Mr. Grant
had turned him off the place, and had made Red Mick manager, and
that Miss Grant was going to marry Red Mick; then he woke with
a start, and heard through the darkness the rapid hoof-beats of a
horse ridden at speed up the road from Kiley's, and the barking of
dogs that announced the arrival of a stranger.
He went out and found in the yard one of the telegraph operators
from Kiley's, on a smoking horse. "Very important telegram, Mr.
Gordon," he said. "I borrowed the horse, and brought it over as
fast as I could."
Hugh opened the envelope hurriedly. The operator struck a match
and held it up while he read. The message was from the secretary
of Grant's club, and ran as follows:
"William Grant died suddenly this morning. Pinnock taking charge
of affairs; am making arrangements funeral.
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