The bland self-possession of Mr. Melton’s face began to show signs of being ruffled. He had been in a manner deluded into exhibiting his conventionally fluent eloquence, in the choicest modulations of his sonorous voice--and it wounded his self esteem to be placed in his present position. “I understood you to say,” he remarked stiffly, “that you had not seen the evening newspapers.” “You are quite right,” Amelius rejoined; “I have not seen them.” “Then may I inquire,” Mr. Melton proceeded, “how you became informed of Mrs. Farnaby’s death?” Amelius replied with his customary frankness. “I went to call on the poor lady this morning,” he said, “knowing nothing of what had happened. I met the doctor at the door; and I was present at her death.” Even Mr. Melton’s carefully-trained composure was not proof against the revelation that now opened before him. He burst out with an exclamation of astonishment, like an ordinary man. “Good heavens, what does this mean!” Amelius took it as a question addressed to himself. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said quietly. Mr. Melton, misunderstanding Amelius on his side, interpreted those innocent words as an outbreak of vulgar interruption. “Pardon me,” he said coldly. “I was about to explain myself. You will presently understand my surprise. After seeing the evening paper, I went at once to make inquiries at the address mentioned. In Mr. Farnaby’s absence, I felt bound to do this as his old friend. I saw the landlady, and, with her assistance, the doctor also. Both these persons spoke of a gentleman who had called that morning, accompanied by a young lady; and who had insisted on taking the young lady upstairs with him. Until you mentioned just now that you were present at the death, I had no suspicion that you were ‘the gentleman’. Surprise on my part was, I think, only natural. I could hardly be expected to know that you were in Mrs. Farnaby’s confidence about the place of her retreat. And with regard to the young lady, I am still quite at a loss to understand--” “If you understand that the people at the house told you the truth, so far as I am concerned,” Amelius interposed, “I hope that will be enough. With regard to the young lady, I must beg you to excuse me for speaking plainly. I have nothing to say about her, to you or to anybody.” Mr. Melton rose with the utmost dignity and the fullest possession of his vocal resources. “Permit me to assure you,” he said, with frigidly fluent politeness, “that I have no wish to force myself into your confidence. One remark I will venture to make. It is easy enough, no doubt, to keep your own secrets, when you are speaking to _me._ You will find some difficulty, I fear, in pursuing the same course, when you are called upon to give evidence before the coroner. I presume you know that you will be summoned as a witness at the inquest?”