When Eugene O'Donnell got the telegram he fell into despair. He durst not go to his father or his mother. Up to this his father had been in the very best spirits, fully anticipating deliverance at the hands of Lavirotte. Now what was to become of them? Ruin of the most complete kind stared them in the face. They would not have the least chance of saving anything from the wreck of their fortune, for James O'Donnell was a man of scrupulous honesty, and would not lend himself to the least kind of fraud. When everything was sold up they would not be able to pay more than a small portion of the last call, and Eugene knew his father too well to think he would conceal a single penny, or accept a favour at the hands of the bank. Eugene did not know what to do. The telegram came to him when he was alone. He read it three times, put it in his pocket, and went out to try if a walk in the air would help him. Insensibly his steps turned towards the station, where, a little later on in the afternoon, he would, in the ordinary course, find himself on the way to Glengowra. When he got to the railway station he looked at his watch, and saw that there was just time for him to run out to Glengowra and get back again before his ordinary time for leaving the office. He determined to run out and tell it first of all to Nellie, upon whom he had learned to depend. She was greatly surprised to see him so early, ran to him with a smile, and, throwing her arms round him, said: "I cannot tell you why, but I was half expecting to see you earlier than usual. You have brought good news, I dare say, from Lavirotte?" He shook his head, and said: "No; poor Lavirotte has met with an accident." "Met with an accident!" cried Nellie, in surprise. "Is it serious, and will he be able to do what he promised for your father?" "Well, you see," said her husband, "this accident is likely to knock him up for some time, I suppose, and every hour is precious to us." The husband and wife were now in the little drawing-room overlooking the sea. He had sat down on a chair, dispiritedly. She stood opposite him, with eager, inquiring eyes. "So that you are afraid," said she, "that, after all, his promise may come to nothing." "Yes," said Eugene, "I am afraid it may come to nothing." She sank on a chair beside him, and cried: "Good heavens, Eugene, what is to become of us all?" "I don't know, Nellie," he said gloomily, "I have not dared to tell the governor yet. I must tell him to-night, you know. He must at once decide upon what we shall do." "Do you believe Lavirotte met with an accident?" "Certainly I believe. What object could he have in telling a lie?" "To screen his failure, if not worse." "What could be worse at present than his failure?" "Supposing he had deliberately deceived all through." "What earthly object could Lavirotte have in deceiving us?" "Well, he would tell neither you nor your father where he expected this money from. I don't like Lavirotte. I don't trust him. I wish we never had anything to do with him. I think it was an unfortunate day you first met him." "Look here, now, Nellie. I believe Lavirotte was perfectly sincere in this matter, as I believe he was sincere in his love of you, or in his desire to destroy me when under the influence of what must have been insanity. Anyway, this is not the time to discuss his merits. We must think of what we ourselves have to do in this matter. How am I to break it to my father? After all he has gone through, I fear it will kill him or drive him mad. He has the fullest faith in Lavirotte's turning up with the money in time. As I told you before, he has made arrangements for the future in the full faith that the help will be forthcoming." "I don't know how you are to do it, Eugene. As you say, there is very little time, if he must know this evening. Would you like me to go in and see your mother, or do you think I should only be in the way?" "I don't know, I'm sure. But I think, after all, it will be best if I open the subject to him." So it was decided that Eugene should go back to Rathclare, and make known to his father the bad news contained in the telegram. His visit to Glengowra had no effect. It left a strong impression on Nellie's mind, that in addition to Lavirotte being, under great excitement, a dangerous lunatic, he was capable at ordinary times of deliberately and cruelly lying, if the statements he made were not the result of delusion. When Eugene found his father, the latter was in the best of spirits. "Well, my son," he cried cheerily, "any news from London? Has our friend, our good friend, got the money? Time is running very short now, and since we are going to pay the call, we may as well do the thing decently and be up to time." "Do you think, sir, there is no chance of getting a later date for payment?" The father shook his head. "No, there is no chance," he said. "Those who can pay must pay up at once. I am not myself uneasy about Lavirotte, but I wish we had some news. It will be comfortable to hear the mill going when this awful banking affair is pleasantly settled; but I own the sound of the mill does not seem good for my ears just now. This, of course, will be all right in a few days. Why do you ask if there is any chance of getting time, boy?" "Because, sir, it has occurred to me that possibly we may want it." "But Lavirotte knows the circumstances of the case; and with such vast expectations as he has, there can be no difficulty whatever in getting in the form of an advance any sum of money we may require." "That depends on the security he has to offer. Do you know, sir, what is the nature of the security he has to offer?" "No, he would not tell me. He said he was under an obligation, and could communicate the matter to no one." "Well, sir, may it not be that the property which he expects to come into will not realise quite as much as he anticipated? Suppose it fell a little short of what you want, what should you do?" "Borrow money on this place, of course," said the merchant, waving his hand over his head. "But in case, I mean, that what Lavirotte could give you and what you could borrow on this place would not together make sufficient, what would you do?" "Upon my word, Eugene, you are in a very uncomfortable humour to-day. What earthly use is there in calculating upon chances or solving difficulties that will never arise? But I may answer you. I should of course sell the place. I should sell every stick of the place, every wheel, every ounce of stuff in it, my house, horses, plate, furniture, in fact everything that I have." By this time the face of the old man had lost its gay aspect. He had turned pale. His eyes were no longer sprightly, but fixed with a strange glitter, not turned directly towards his son--in fact, avoiding his son's gaze. It was as though he suspected--he more than suspected, he assumed--Eugene had some bad news to give him, and that he would wait there patiently for the bad news to come without aiding his son's story by the display of curiosity. "But, sir, I have some reason to fear Lavirotte will not be able to do all he said. I am disposed to think, on good grounds, that he will not have all the money we want in time." The son now avoided the father's face. They were sitting at opposite sides of the large office table. The son's eyes were turned towards the window looking into the quadrangle. The father's eyes were fixed vacantly upon the door of the strong-room behind his son, and to his right. "In that case," said the elder man, "I should mortgage." "I am very much disinclined to go on," said the young man, frowning heavily, "but I have no alternative. Lavirotte will not be able to give you all you want, and I do not think you will be able to pay all." "Then I shall sell. I shall sell every stick I have in the world." The old man's eyes became more fixed than ever; they never wandered from that door. His face became more pallid. With both hands he grasped the elbows of his chair. He sat well in the chair, leaning slightly forward, as though he expected someone who would try and pull him out of it. His son looked hastily at him for a moment, then turned his eyes away as hastily, and said slowly: "You must know, sir--you must by this time have guessed that I have had bad news from London, from Lavirotte. You must try and bear up, sir, for all our sakes. It will be a bitter blow after the hope we have lived in for months." James O'Donnell seemed to abandon the position he had taken up with regard to Eugene's news. It would be folly any longer to affect ignorance that something terrible was coming, or to court delay. "What is the news from Lavirotte?" he asked. "Lavirotte is himself injured by some accident, and he has no longer any hope of realising the money he expected." "No longer any hope," repeated the old man. "No longer any hope, sir. We are not to rely on him for the least aid. What do you purpose doing, sir?" "I must think over the matter for a while, Eugene." He looked calmly at his watch. "You have only just time to catch the train, and I would rather be alone at present." "If you would let me stay, sir, I would much rather remain with you. I can drive home later." "No, Eugene; you may go now. I would rather be alone." The old man seemed quite calm and collected; in fact, so calm and collected, that Eugene resolved not to go to Glengowra by the train, but to run up to his father's house and to tell his mother what had occurred. When James O'Donnell found himself alone, he got up slowly out of his chair, crossed the floor, opened the door of the strong-room, whispering to himself: "No longer any hope." He went into the gloomy chamber, and going to the safe, opened it and took something from it. When he returned to the office, he held the revolver in his hand and whispered to himself: "No longer any hope." He looked at his watch. It was just closing time. Having placed the revolver on the table, he sat down in his chair, whispering in the same quiet voice, "I will wait till they are all gone," and repeated for the third time: "No longer any hope." At seven o'clock Eugene returned to the private office, for which he had a key. To his astonishment he found his father's chair vacant and the strong-room door open. He went into the strong-room and examined it. The door of the safe was open. The drawer was pulled out. Eugene turned sick. He leant against the wall and moaned out: "Oh! what has the poor old man done!" Then he pushed in the drawer, the door of the safe, the door of the strong-room, and having locked the door of the private office, hastened downstairs. He could find no trace of his father. He set half-a-dozen men to search the town quietly. Up to next morning he failed to find any clue to James O'Donnell.

END OF VOL. II.

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CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.