Never in his life, it is safe to say, was Major Dundas more surprised than when his orderly thus announced the presence in Brampton barracks of the person last credited with the despatch from this world of the late Mr. Barton. "Farren?" he repeated. "Sure? What's he like?" "He wears a long cloak and a soft felt 'at, sir." "Show him up, then--and look here, keep your eye on him!" "Yes, sir." "If it's the same man he's got the cheek of Old Nick himself," muttered the Major; "what the deuce can he want with me? Seems my fate to be lugged into this business." The Major was in mufti. On his left arm a broad band of black cloth was the outward and visible sign of mourning for his recently deceased cousin. He had undertaken for Miriam all the details of the funeral--the conveyance of the body to Lesser Thorpe and the interring of it in the family vault. And this he had done with all due respect and solemnity. But in his heart he was obliged to confess that the events of the past few weeks had caused him in every way the greatest possible sensation of relief. In the first place Miriam's brother was no longer in this world to pester her or anyone else, and he had been the sort of man from whom there could be no feeling of riddance on this side of the grave. For Gerald he was sorry--he pitied him just so much as one pities any man who is the victim of his own mad folly. But his death could be counted a loss to no one. On the contrary, it was bound to bring with it a distinct feeling of relief, because the Major was no hypocrite, and he never attempted to disguise from himself that the one object of his life now was to make Miriam his wife--and had indeed been so for long past. Her absurd scruples on the subject of divorce he had felt no sympathy with--the most he had been able to do was to respect them. She having returned to the flat, he had seen very little--all too little of her recently. But she had not been alone, for the good heart of Mrs. Parsley had gone out to her in her trouble, with the result that the vicar's wife had taken up her abode at Rosary Mansions during those first weeks of her widowhood. And so were matters progressing as comfortably as the Major could desire when the announcement of this man Farren's presence came as a cold blast upon him. He put aside the paper he was working at and waited. His welcome was not a cordial one. But at this his visitor was wholly unmoved. He sat down uninvited and looked calmly at his host. Indeed, he forced Dundas to open the ball. "Well, Mr. Farren, what do you want with me?" "Can you not surmise that, friend, without my telling?" "Damn it, sir, don't call _me_ your friend, or you'll find I'm a precious unpleasant one." "It is a mere figure of speech, friend. The world is cold--there is no friendship--no love. I come not for love but for money!" "What--confound you, man, what do you mean?"