Sir Philip Ramon, sitting writing in his study at Portland Place, found a difficulty in keeping his mind upon the letter that lay before him. It was a letter addressed to his agent at Branfell, the huge estate over which he, in the years he was out of office, played squire. Neither wife nor chick nor child had Sir Philip. '... If by any chance these men succeed in carrying out their purpose I have made ample provision not only for yourself but for all who have rendered me faithful service,' he wrote—from which may be gathered the tenor of his letter.
During these past few weeks, Sir Philip's feelings towards the possible outcome of his action had undergone a change.
The irritation of a constant espionage, friendly on the one hand, menacing on the other, had engendered so bitter a feeling
