‘This is a very queer case, Bates, very queer,’ said Mr Carver, addressing his clerk. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mr Bates, continuing the scratching. That gentleman possessed the instinct of always being able to divine what his chief was thinking of. Therefore, when Mr Bates said ‘Yes, sir,’ he knew that the Eastwood mystery had been alluded to. ‘I’d most cheerfully give—let me see, what would I give? Well, I wouldn’t mind paying down my cheque for’—— ‘One thousand pounds, sir. No, sir; I don’t think you would.’ ‘You’re a wonderful fellow, Bates,’ said his admiring master. ‘’Pon my honour, Bates, that’s the exact sum I was going to mention.’ ‘It _is_ strange, sir,’ said the imperturbable Bates, ‘that you and I always think the same things. I suppose it is being with you so long. Now, if I was to _think_ you would give me a partnership, perhaps you would think the same thing too.’ ‘Bates,’ said Mr Carver earnestly, never smiling, as was his wont, at his clerk’s quiet badinage, ‘if we unravel this mystery, as I hope we may, I’ll tell you what, Bates, don’t be surprised if I give you a partnership.’ ‘Ah, sir, if we unravel it. Now, if we could only find’—— ‘Miss Eleanor. Just what I was thinking.’ At this moment a grimy clerk put his head in at the door. ‘Please, sir, a young person of the name of Seaton.’ ‘It is Miss Eleanor, by Jove!’ said Bates, actually excited. ‘Wonderful!’ said Mr Carver. In a few seconds the lady was ushered into the presence of Mr Carver. She was tall and fair, with a style of beauty uncommon to the people of to-day. Clad from head to foot in plain black, hat, jacket, and dress cut with a simplicity almost severe, and relieved only by a white collar at the throat, there was something in her air and bearing which spoke of a culture and breeding not easily defined in words, but nevertheless unmistakable. It was a face and figure that men would look at and turn again to watch, even in the busy street. Her complexion was almost painfully perfect in its clear pallid whiteness, and the large dark lustrous eyes shone out from the marble face with dazzling brightness. She had a perfect abundance of real golden hair, looped up in a great knot behind; but the rebellious straying tresses fell over her broad low forehead like an aureole round the head of a saint. For a few moments she regarded Mr Carver with a faint, wavering, unsteady smile. That gentleman tried to speak, and then blew his nose with unnecessary and ostentatious violence. ‘Don’t you know me, Mr Carver?’ she said at length. ‘My dear Eleanor, my dear Eleanor, do sit down!’ This was the person whom he had been longing for two years to see, and Mr Carver, cool as he was, was rather knocked off his balance for a moment. ‘Poor child! Why, why didn’t you come and see me before?’ ‘Pride, Mr Carver—pride,’ she replied, with a painful air of assumed playfulness. ‘But surely pride did not prevent your coming to see your old friend?’