“I’m not going to scream,” said Prudence, eyeing the intruder with great composure. “I’m not afraid of him.” Despite her reluctance to have a scene—a thing which was strongly opposed to the traditions of Bashford’s Lane—Mrs. Truefitt had got as far as the doorstep in search of assistance, when a sudden terrible thought occurred to her: Fred was dead, and the visitor had hit upon this extraordinary fashion of breaking the news gently. “Come into the parlour,” she said, faintly. Mr. Catesby, suppressing his surprise, followed her into the room. Prudence, her fine figure erect and her large eyes meeting his steadily, took up a position by the side of her mother. “You have brought bad news?” inquired the latter. “No, mother,” said Mr. Catesby, simply, “only myself, that’s all.” Mrs. Truefitt made a gesture of impatience, and her daughter, watching him closely, tried to remember something she had once read about detecting insanity by the expression of the eyes. Those of Mr. Catesby were blue, and the only expression in them at the present moment was one of tender and respectful admiration. “When did you see Fred last?” inquired Mrs. Truefitt, making another effort. “Mother,” said Mr. Catesby, with great pathos, “don’t you know me?” “He has brought bad news of Fred,” said Mrs. Truefitt, turning to her daughter; “I am sure he has.” “I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Catesby, with a bewildered glance from one to the other. “I am Fred. Am I much changed? You look the same as you always did, and it seems only yesterday since I kissed Prudence good-bye at the docks. You were crying, Prudence.” Miss Truefitt made no reply; she gazed at him unflinchingly and then bent toward her mother. “He is mad,” she whispered; “we must try and get him out quietly. Don’t contradict him.” “Keep close to me,” said Mrs. Truefitt, who had a great horror of the insane. “If he turns violent open the window and scream. I thought he had brought bad news of Fred. How did he know about him?” Her daughter shook her head and gazed curiously at their afflicted visitor. She put his age down at twenty-five, and she could not help thinking it a pity that so good-looking a young man should have lost his wits. “Bade Prudence good-bye at the docks,” continued Mr. Catesby, dreamily. “You drew me behind a pile of luggage, Prudence, and put your head on my shoulder. I have thought of it ever since.” Miss Truefitt did not deny it, but she bit her lips, and shot a sharp glance at him. She began to think that her pity was uncalled-for. “I’m just going as far as the corner.” “Tell me all that’s happened since I’ve been away,” said Mr. Catesby. Mrs. Truefitt turned to her daughter and whispered. It might have been merely the effect of a guilty conscience, but the visitor thought that he caught the word “policeman.” “I’m just going as far as the corner,” said Mrs. Truefitt, rising, and crossing hastily to the door. [Illustration]