Mother made no answer, and showed no haste to know why, and I felt half wild with impatience: yet I had just to go on drying the cups and saucers, for mother went back to her washing, and kept handing them to me. I couldn't think why mother didn't at least just ask if anything was wrong with Walter. But I didn't dare ask it myself. "My husband has a lot to do to-day—all these excursion trains," mother said. "It's on account of the races." "I came by an excursion train," says Mary. "They don't all stop here, but some do," says mother. "He's got a deal to see to, and won't be in till dinner-time." "No," Mary said, in a dreamy-like tone. She was getting near the end of the last slice, and I watched her, as greedy as could be for her to have done, that I might hear what she had to say. "Another slice, Mary?" says mother. "O no, thank you. Not any more," says Mary. "You're better for that, aren't you?" mother said. "Yes—much, thank you." "And you'll have a second cup of tea, my dear?" "No; not any more. Nothing more at all," says Mary. Mother had finished the washing up, and I was at the end of the drying. Mother carried away the wooden bowl, and emptied it, as quiet as if nothing at all out of the common was happening. She made me put away the china, and she rubbed the table dry; and all the time Mary sat watching, without a word, and I was in such a fret, I didn't know how to bear myself. "Now," mother says at last, drawing down her sleeves to her wrist; "now you've had something: so you're fit to speak, and I'm free to listen." Mary looked up into mother's face, and then at me—oh, so sadly! I couldn't think whatever in the world she meant. "If you'd rather Kitty should go—" says mother. "No; Kitty may stay," says Mary. And then we could just hear the ticking of the clock, the room was so still. Mother stood with her eyes on Mary's face. "My dear, you've had a lot of worry since you went," she said. "Yes," Mary answered. "And you're going to tell us all about it now, my dear." But Mary didn't speak. I could see her lips working, in a way they had—not as if she wanted to cry, but as if she was troubled, and didn't know how to put into words what she had to say. "It's something to do with your brother," mother says—not as if she was asking a question, but as if she was sure. "Yes; it's something to do with Walter," says Mary; and how my heart did beat! Then all of a sudden Mary turned to me. "Kitty's not looking well," she said. "No," says mother. "Nor happy." "No—nor happy," mother answered. "And you've all been worried too, Mrs. Phrynne." "Yes; we've been worried," mother says quietly. "About the lost watch!" says Mary. That did take us aback, both of us. I know I jumped as if I was shot, and mother says quite sharp— "Why, Mary! how ever did you hear about that?" "A friend of yours came yesterday, asking questions," says she. "A friend! Not the policeman?" "He was in plain clothes, but he was a policeman."