Old Paul had done an unprecedented thing. Utterly regardless of the fact that his usual journey to London was but just completed and the multitudinous stores laid in, he had gone to London again; and that not because he had forgotten anything. He had apparently made up his mind with much suddenness about it; had gone off early in the morning, before anyone was stirring. Patience had been told late the previous night that he was going, and that he should return on the same day; but all her questioning only elicited from him the vague suggestion that it was a matter of business. And as London and Old Paul had been sharply divided, so far as business and all other matters were concerned, for several years past, Patience felt vaguely disquieted. Paul came back by the last train, and he walked queerly out of the station and through the village--walked in a purposeless fashion, as though not quite knowing which way to turn. Even when he came out on to the road that led over the hill towards his house he walked with lagging feet, as though he would delay his home-coming for as long a time as possible. And frightened Patience almost out of her wits by going in at the back of the house, and coming upon her in her own little sanctum adjoining the kitchen. "Lord save us--what's come to the man?" exclaimed Patience, starting up from her chair, and looking at him across the light of the lamp. "I didn't hear you come in." "Hush!" he said, in a strange voice. "I'm tired--and I didn't want to see anyone to-night, Patience--not even the children. Send them to bed; I'll see them in the morning." The woman gave him a swift look over the lamp; then turned quickly, and went from the room, closing the door behind her. Paul tossed his hat into a corner, and sat down, and idly turned the wick of the lamp up and down once or twice; once he laughed softly, as at some grim jest that had just occurred to him. But by the time Patience had come anxiously into the room, and was staring into his face, with her hands clasped at her lean breast, the man was himself again, and could afford to smile at her. "Why--how frightened you look!" he said gently. "What's the matter?" "Master Paul--Master Paul--something has gone wrong. You've bad news?" "No--not bad news," he replied, without looking at her. "Nothing to worry about at any rate--especially to-night. Get me some supper, Patience--and something to drink." She hurried away, and rapidly got a meal for him. When she came back with the tray he was seated near the table, engaged on that old occupation of turning the wick of the lamp up and down. He looked round at her, in the attitude of one listening. "What was that on the stairs?" he whispered. "I thought I heard someone moving. Have they all gone to bed?" "Yes, Master Paul--all gone to bed." "Thank you, Patience; I could not have seen them to-night. And Mr. Ditchburn?"