CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
A VOICE FROM THE DEAD.
Roger Ingleton's reflections, as he lay awake on the morning of his twentieth birthday, were not altogether self-congratulatory.

He was painfully aware that he was what he himself would have styled a poor creature.

He was as weak, physically, as a girl; he was not particularly clever; he was given to a melancholy which made him pass for dull in society.

Ill-health dogged him whenever he tried to achieve anything out of the commonplace.

His tenantry regarded him still as a boy, and very few of his few friends set much store by him for his own sake apart from his fortune.
"A poor show altogether," said he to himself.