I WAS about to start off one summer morning on a little journey of pleasure, when my plans were suddenly altered by the receipt of a telegram from the late Sir Vincent Pickering asking me to go down to his seat near Southampton without delay. The telegram ran as follows:
“Can you come down here at once? Urgent case. Wire reply immediately, and say if I may expect you.”
I had some slight knowledge of Sir Vincent, having met him on two occasions. He was a man of many parts. He had served his country with distinction as a soldier, both in the Crimea and in India during the terrible mutiny. He marched with the gallant Havelock to the relief of Lucknow, and was amongst the first to enter Cawnpore after the troops of the ferocious Nana Sahib had been beaten back and shattered. But a stray shot
