They had not been long occupied with this fascinating exercise, wonderfully suited to so many shades of character, when Greffham lounged in, calm and _insouciant_, as usual. At the first opening in the game he took his favourite cue and played his usually cool and occasionally brilliant game. If he had been in the saddle the long day through, no trace of more than ordinary exercise or excitement was visible in the _soigné_ attire, which seemed a part of the man’s being, or on his calm, impassive features. His play differed not in the slightest degree from his ordinary form, which always showed improvement towards the close, with perfect unconsciousness as to whether he was apparently winning or losing the game. He made his customary break, and, betting upon a five stroke at the finish, gave a shade of odds upon the success of his concluding ‘coup.’ He spoke of a longish ride as far as an outlying quartz reef, in which he had an interest, and mentioned having encountered the two gold-laden troopers at an inn which they would pass towards the end of their day’s journey. Half an hour later on Mr. Merlin dropped in, by no means so calm in his demeanour as Greffham, and full of complaints as to the abominable nature of the weather, the fleas, the dust, the danger of riding late among unprotected shafts, and many other disagreeables specially selected by fate for his deterioration and disgust on this appointed day. While in this unchristian state of mind, for which he was mildly taken to task by Greffham, he was called out by a waiter, who informed him that ‘a gentleman wished to see him.’ ‘Oh, certainly,’ quoth the unappeased official with sardonic politeness; ‘most happy, I’m sure. _I very seldom see one._’ With this Parthian shaft at the entire community, which was accepted as a perfectly permissible and characteristic pleasantry, Mr. Merlin quitted the room to greet the aforesaid rare and precious personage. He did not return; and after a little unlimited loo, in which Mr. Greffham transferred the larger portion of Ernest’s ready money to his own pocket, the company separated for the night. It was moderately early on the morrow when Mr. Neuchamp presented himself in the main street of Turonia. He was at once instinctively aware that something strange had happened. The ordinary life and labour of the busy human hive seemed arrested. Men stood in groups at the sides, the corners, the centres of the streets, conversing in low tones with bated breath, as it seemed to Ernest. The very air was heavy and laden with horror―unexplained, mysterious―until above the hum and confused murmurs came, ominous and unmistakable, the one darkest irrevocable word ‘murder!’ It was even so. Mr. Bright, walking briskly down the street, accosted him, and in the next breath asked if he had heard the news.