“Tell him,” she said, “to stay there till I come, which I will do directly.” She remained for a few minutes with her guests, and then, excusing herself quietly to Mrs. Humdrum, she stepped out and hastened to her son’s room. She told him that Professors Hanky and Panky were staying in the house, and that during dinner they had told her something he ought to know, but which there was no time to tell him until her guests were gone. “I had rather,” she said, “tell you about it before you see the Professors, for if you see them the whole thing will be reopened, and you are sure to let them see how much more there is in it than they suspect. I want everything hushed up for the moment; do not, therefore, join us. Have dinner sent to you in your father’s study. I will come to you about midnight.” “But, my dear mother,” said George, “I have seen Panky already. I walked down with him a good long way this afternoon.” Yram had not expected this, but she kept her countenance. “How did you know,” said she, “that he was Professor Panky? Did he tell you so?” “Certainly he did. He showed me his permit, which was made out in favour of Professors Hanky and Panky, or either of them. He said Hanky had been unable to come with him, and that he was himself Professor Panky.” Yram again smiled very sweetly. “Then, my dear boy,” she said, “I am all the more anxious that you should not see him now. See nobody but the servants and your brothers, and wait till I can enlighten you. I must not stay another moment; but tell me this much, have you seen any signs of poachers lately?” “Yes; there were three last night.” “In what part of the preserves?” Her son described the place. “You are sure they had been killing quails?” “Yes, and eating them--two on one side of a fire they had lit, and one on the other; this last man had done all the plucking.” “Good!” She kissed him with more than even her usual tenderness, and returned to the drawing-room. During the rest of the evening she was engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Humdrum, leaving her other guests to her daughters and to themselves. Mrs. Humdrum had been her closest friend for many years, and carried more weight than any one else in Sunch’ston, except, perhaps, Yram herself. “Tell him everything,” she said to Yram at the close of their conversation; “we all dote upon him; trust him frankly, as you trusted your husband before you let him marry you. No lies, no reserve, no tears, and all will come right. As for me, command me,” and the good old lady rose to take her leave with as kind a look on her face as ever irradiated saint or angel. “I go early,” she added, “for the others will go when they see me do so, and the sooner you are alone the better.”