“The fact is, Mr. Bradstone, I was just thinking of coming down to you.” “Coming down to me!” said Bartley Bradstone, with a frown. “Why----Well, sir, I wanted to place one or two matters before you. The fact is, things have not been very bright in the city of late, and I have not had the advantage of your advice quite so much, and perhaps you have heard the news.” “What news?” asked Bartley Bradstone. “I allude to the South Indian Bank, Mr. Bradstone,” said Mr. Mowle, passing his hand over his mouth and eying Bartley Bradstone with the same watchful and deprecatory manner. “Well, what about it?” said Bartley Bradstone; “I wrote and gave you instructions to sell those South Indian Bank shares a week ago.” Mr. Mowle gave a little start, and shook his head apologetically. “I--I beg your pardon, sir; I think a slight misunderstanding,” as if he were trying to gain time to collect himself. “Misunderstanding! What do you mean? Do you mean to say I didn’t write?” “I did not say you did not write, Mr. Bradstone; but I certainly did not receive the letter.” Bartley Bradstone rose and clutched the back of his chair, and for a moment seemed incapable of speech, and then he said: “Do you mean to tell me that the shares of the South Indian still stand in my name?” Mr. Mowle put out one hand. “No, no, no, Mr. Bradstone, I don’t say that,” he said, with a sudden change of face; “I said I did not receive your letter. Pray take a seat. Pray sit down again, sir, and compose yourself. Fortunately, I have had my eye upon the bank for some time past, and when the critical moment came, I sold out.” Bartley Bradstone sank into a chair and drew a breath of relief. “That is well, Mowle,” he said. “You gave me a turn. If you had not unloaded those shares for me, things would have looked bad. Now I want you to realize these things.” He took a list from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Mowle. Mr. Mowle went back to the table and examined the list with respectful anxiousness, and as he did so, he put up his hand before his face, which underwent some peculiar changes of expression. “I think I had better see to some of these things at once, sir,” he said. “Do,” said Bartley Bradstone, curtly. “Will you wait, sir? Or will you come in again? I shan’t be more than half an hour or so. I hope things are all well down at The Maples, Mr. Bradstone? What a lovely place it is, to be sure; quite a palace. And Mrs. Bradstone, sir--I do trust she is better. What a painful, mysterious affair that murder is, sir!” “Yes, yes,” said Bartley Bradstone. “Yes, Mrs. Bradstone is better, and a man’s being tried for the murder. I think I’ll go down to the bank, while you sell that stock. Why the devil don’t you open the window in this room? It smells like a charcoal house,” and he wiped his burning forehead. “Yes, yes, it is, sir,” said Mr. Mowle; “it is rather close,” and he shuffled to the window and made a vain attempt to open it.