A month later, when he was making an angry walking tour in Hungary, he learned from an English paper, already many days old, of the two deaths which effected his great change of fortune.

He communicated with his lawyer, arranged to return by a certain date, and continued his tour for another month.
On his return he had gone at once to Lossiemouth, which he had visited occasionally as a poor and peppery and not greatly respected relation.
Business of all kinds instantly engulfed him.

He was impatient, difficult, _distrait_, slightly pleased with himself at showing so little gratification at his magnificent inheritance.
On the third day he sorted out the letters which looked like personal ones, from among a heap of correspondence, the accumulation of many weeks.
Quantities of envelopes were torn open, and the contents thrown aside, begging letters, decently veiled congratulations from "old friends" who had not so far shown any particular desire to make their friendship a joy to him.
Presently he came upon a long, closely written letter of several sheets, in a slanting hand, which he was about to dismiss as another begging letter when his eye fell on the signature.

Bellows?
Bulteel?
Buller?
_Bellairs ?_ Aunt Aggie's signature was quite illegible.

It was an arranged squiggle painfully acquired in youth, which through life had resulted in all kinds of difficulties with tradespeople, and in continual annoyance and inconvenience to herself.