“What is the matter now?” he demanded, angrily, for like most men when in a fright which they are ashamed to exhibit, Mr. Sigismund Braggett tried to cover his want of courage by bounce. The young man called Hewetson advanced towards him, with a face the colour of ashes, and pointed towards the ground-glass doors dumbly. “What do you mean? Can’t you speak? What’s come to the lot of you, that you are neglecting my business in this fashion to make fools of yourselves?” “If you please, sir, she’s in there.” Mr. Braggett started back as if he’d been shot. But still he tried to have it out. “_She!_ Who’s _she?_” “Miss Cray, sir.” “Haven’t I told you already that’s a lie.” “Will you judge for yourself, Mr. Braggett?” said a grey-haired man, stepping forward. “I was on the stairs myself just now when Miss Cray passed me, and I have no doubt whatever but that you will find her in your private room, however much the reports that have lately reached you may seem against the probability of such a thing.” Mr. Braggett’s teeth chattered in his head as he advanced to the ground-glass doors, through the panes of one of which there was a little peephole to ascertain if the room were occupied or not. He stooped and looked in. At the table, with her back towards him, was seated the well-known figure of Charlotte Cray. He recognised at once the long black mantle in which she was wont to drape her gaunt figure--the blue bonnet, with its dejected-looking, uncurled feather--the lank curls which rested on her shoulders--and the black-leather bag, with a steel clasp, which she always carried in her hand. It was the embodiment of Charlotte Cray, he had no doubt of that; but how could he reconcile the fact of her being there with the damp clods he had seen piled upon her grave, with the certificate of death, and the doctor’s and landlady’s assertion that they had watched her last moments? At last he prepared, with desperate energy, to turn the handle of the door. At that moment the attention of the more frivolous of the clerks was directed from his actions by the entrance of an uncommonly pretty woman at the other end of the outer office. Such a lovely creature as this seldom brightened the gloom of their dusty abiding-place. Lilies, roses, and carnations vied with each other in her complexion, whilst the sunniest of locks, and the brightest of blue eyes, lent her face a girlish charm not easily described. What could this fashionably-attired Venus want in their house of business? “Is Mr. Braggett here? I am Mrs. Braggett. Please show me in to him immediately.” They glanced at the ground-glass doors of the inner office. They had already closed behind the manly form of their employer. “This way, madam,” one said, deferentially, as he escorted her to the presence of Mr. Braggett.