"A particularly clever hand at figures!" remarked Coppinger. "A man as tried hard to do his duty," said Crood. "Of course I'll not say that everybody saw eye to eye with him. They didn't. Wherever there's public bodies, Mr. Brent, there'll be parties. Your poor cousin had his party--and there was, to be sure, a party against him and his. But you'll be well aware, sir, as a London gentleman, that no doubt often visits Parliament, that here in England men is enemies in politics that's firm friends outside 'em. I believe I may say that that's a fact, sir?" "Oh, no doubt!" agreed Brent. He was already feeling at a loss, and he scarcely knew what to say next. "I heard, though, that my cousin, as Mayor, was proposing such drastic reforms in the administration of your borough affairs, that--well, in short, that personal feeling had been imported." Crood shook his head more solemnly than ever. "I think you've been misinformed on that point, Mr. Brent," he said. "There may be--no doubt are--mischievous persons that would say such things, but I never heard nothing of the sort, sir. Political feeling, perhaps; but personal feeling--no!" "Certainly not!" said Mallett. "Nothing of the sort!" said Coppinger. "Now, I should say," remarked Crood, waving his pipe again, "that our late lamented Mayor, as an individual, was much thought of amongst the townspeople. I believe Mr. Mallett will agree with that--and Mr. Coppinger." "A great deal thought of," answered Mallett. "By, I should say, everybody," added Coppinger. "He was, of course, a comparative stranger," continued Crood. "Twelve years only had he been amongst us--and now cut off, sudden and malicious, at the beginning of his career! But well thought of, sir, well thought of!" "Then you feel sure that this crime has not sprung out of his public affairs?" suggested Brent. "It's not what you'd call a political murder?" "Of that, sir, I would take my solemn oath!" declared Crood. "The idea, sir, is ridiculous." "Absurd!" said Mallett. "Out of the question!" affirmed Coppinger. "Why then, has he been murdered?" asked Brent. "What's at the bottom of it?" All three men shook their heads. They looked at each other. They looked at Brent. "Ay--what?" said Crood. "Just so!" agreed Mallett. "That's precisely where it is," concluded Coppinger. "Exactly!" "More in it than anyone knows of--most probably--at present, Mr. Brent," observed Crood, with solemn significance. "Time, sir, time! Time, sir, may tell--may!" Brent saw that he was not going to get any information under that roof, and after a further brief exchange of trite observations he rose to take his leave. Alderman Crood wrung his hand.