He put it in the pocket of his shooting-coat and went downstairs, intending to go straight to the stables to find Pottinger; but as he went through the hall, Murray, the secretary, came out of the library, and Sir Stephen caught sight of Stafford through the open door, and called to him.

Stafford went in, and his father rose from the table on which was already piled a heap of letters and papers, and taking Stafford's hand, laid a hand on his shoulder.
"You are early, my boy," he said.

"I did not expect to see you for hours yet; couldn't you sleep?
You look rather tired, Stafford; you were late last night, and--ah, well! there was some excuse for a little excitement and exaltation." He smiled whimsically, as a father does at a son who has for once gone beyond the strict bounds of moderation and looked upon the wine cup too often.
"Yes, I've rather a head on this morning, sir," said Stafford, quietly, accepting the suggestion as an excuse for his ill-looks.

"I drank and smoked, last night, more than I usually do.

You look as fresh as usual, sir," he added, with unconscious irony.
Sir Stephen threw up his head with a short laugh.
"Oh, my work wasn't finished last night, my dear boy!" he said.