CHAPTER XI. AN ANGEL VISITS PYLE’S PARK. A week had elapsed. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and in the drawing-room at Pyle’s Park, Mr. and Mrs. Enoch Pyle were having tea. The custom did not come naturally to them, but they believed it was the proper thing, and so they adopted it. It was particularly a trial to the old man, who, since his retirement, had been obliged to fight hard against an ingrained preference for shirt sleeves and slippers; but he had denied himself heroically, for the most part. The merest glance about the room, with its costly furniture and costlier pictures and statuary, was enough to show that its owner was a man of great wealth; but one might have looked in vain for any signs of culture or good taste. For Enoch Pyle and his wife, as Atherton has said, were old-fashioned country people, who had had few advantages. Having said this, however, it is only fair to say that they had their good points--many of them. There was nothing mean or uncharitable about them. They were kind-hearted, hospitable, and generous to a fault. At the same time, it must be admitted that they dearly loved “society”--at a distance--and that it was the greatest disappointment of their lives that none of the neighboring social lights would have anything to do with them. At the moment the old couple were talking about the “sensational affair,” as the newspapers called it, at Meadowview--the attempted burglary of the Massey jewels, and the wounding of Francis Massey’s arm. For unluckily--from the standpoint of The Order of the Philosopher’s Stone--the rich haul had not been carried away. The jewel cases had not yet been placed in the waiting bag when the Count had fired, and that unlooked-for shot, coming from some mysterious quarter, had so unnerved the rascals for the time being that they had decamped without their booty. Probably, also, they had feared with good reason, that the shot would alarm the household and bring the servants about their ears in short order. At any rate, Johann Wilhelm had subsequently learned, to his deep disgust, that the burglary had been unsuccessful with all he had done. “I heard down in the village to-day,” said Mr. Pyle, “that the doctors ain’t very encouragin’. They’re afraid they’ll have to ampytate Mr. Massey’s hand. They say the bones----” “I wish you wouldn’t talk about bones at tea time!” protested his wife. “It don’t seem proper, and it sort of takes my appetite away.” “Excuse me, ma,” Mr. Pyle said humbly, and lapsed into silence. “Ain’t the police discovered any clew to the thieves yet?” his wife asked presently. “Neither hide nor hair of one,” was the answer. “An’ that reminds me of somethin’ else I heard in the village to-day. Mr. Massey has gone and sent for Nick Carter.” “That’s what he’d ought to have done a week ago,” declared his wife. “Has Mr. Carter been to the house yet?”