“The White Horse, Newstead,” he said at length, in a whisper; “better write it down.” Mrs. Berry obeyed; and this business being completed, Mr. Cox, after trying in vain to obtain a shilling or two cash in hand, bade them a pathetic farewell and went off down the path, for some reason best known to himself, on tiptoe. For the first two days Messrs. Cox and Piper waited with exemplary patience for the remittance, the demands of the landlord, a man of coarse fibre, being met in the meantime by the latter gentleman from his own slender resources. They were both reasonable men, and knew from experience the difficulty of raising money at short notice; but on the fourth day, their funds being nearly exhausted, an urgent telegram was dispatched to Mrs. Cox. Mr. Cox was alone when the reply came, and Mr. Piper, returning to the inn-parlour, was amazed and distressed at his friend’s appearance. Twice he had to address him before he seemed to be aware of his presence, and then Mr. Cox, breathing hard and staring at him strangely, handed him the message. “Eh?” said Mr. Piper, in amaze, as he read slowly: “‘No—need—send—money—Uncle—Joseph—has—come—back.—BERRY,’ What does it__ mean? Is she mad?” Mr. Cox shook his head, and taking the paper from him, held it at arm’s length and regarded it at an angle. “How can you be there when you’re supposed to be dead?” he said, at length. “How can I be there when I’m here?” rejoined Mr. Piper, no less reasonably. Both gentlemen lapsed into a wondering silence, devoted to the attempted solution of their own riddles. Finally Mr. Cox, seized with a bright idea that the telegram had got altered in transmission, went off to the post-office and dispatched another, which went straight to the heart of things: “_Don’t—understand—is—Uncle—Joseph—alive?_” A reply was brought to the inn-parlour an hour later on. Mr. Cox opened it, gave one glance at it, and then with a suffocating cry handed it to the other. Mr. Piper took it gingerly, and his eyebrows almost disappeared as he read: “_Yes—smoking—in—drawing-room._” His first strong impression was that it was a case for the Psychical Research Society, but this romantic view faded in favour of a simple solution, propounded by Mr. Cox with much crispness, that Mrs. Berry was leaving the realms of fact for those of romance. His actual words were shorter, but the meaning is the same. “I’ll go home and ask to see you,” he said, fiercely; “that’ll bring things to a head, I should think.” “And she’ll say I’ve gone back to London, perhaps,” said Mr. Piper, gifted with sudden clearness of vision. “You can’t show her up unless you take me with you, and that’ll show _us_ up. That’s her artfulness; that’s Susan all over.” “She’s a wicked, untruthful woman,” gasped Mr. Cox. “I never did like Susan,” said Mr. Piper, with acerbity, “never.”