The butler opened the door and took the Rector's hat and stick with a silent _savoir-faire_ indicative of experience in well-bred grief. His chaste demeanour said as plainly as words that this was right and proper, the Rector being no more than he expected. “Where's your mistress?” asked Mr. Glynde, who had strong views upon butlers in general and Tims in particular--said Tims being so sure of his place that he did not always trouble to know it. “Library, sir,” replied Tims in an appropriately sepulchral voice. The Rector went to the library without waiting to be announced. He was a man well versed in human nature, as most parsons are, and it is possible that he had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Agar watching his advent from the dining-room window. The lady of the house was standing by the writing-table when he entered, and beneath her ill-concealed excitement there was something subtly observant, like the glance of an untruthful child, which he never forgot nor forgave, despite his cloth and the impossibilities popularly expected therefrom. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “it is you. I have telegraphed for Arthur. I have--telegraphed for Arthur.” “Why?” She gave a nervous, almost a guilty little laugh, and looked at him with puzzled discomfort. “Why?” he repeated, looking at her with a cold scrutiny much dreaded of the parish ne'er-do-wells. “Oh, well,” she replied, “it is only natural that I should want him at home in such a time as this--such a terrible affliction. Besides--” “Besides,” suggested the Rector imperturbably, “he is now master of Stagholme.” “Yes!” she said, with a simulated surprise which would scarcely have deceived the most guileless Sunday-school teacher. “I had not thought of that. I suppose something must be done at once--those horrid lawyers again.” Her eyes were dancing with breathless excitement. To this woman excitement even in the form of a death was better than nothing. The bourgeois mind, with its love of a Crystal Palace, a subscription dance, or even a parochial bazaar, was unquenchable even after years of practice as the county lady of position. The Rector did not answer. He stood squarely in front of her with a persistence that forced her to turn shiftily away with a pretence of looking at the clock. “This is a bad business,” he said. “That boy ought never to have gone out there.” Mrs. Agar had her handkerchief ready and made use of it, with as much effect upon Mr. Glynde as might have been produced upon a granite sphinx. There is no man harder to deceive than the innately good and conscientious man of the world who has tried to find good in human nature. “Poor boy!” sobbed the lady. “Dear Jem! I could not keep him at home.” Thus proving herself a fool, and worse, before those wise eyes.