“It is evident to me,” said Mr. Somerset, “that the blank letter and the ‘knocks’ and this letter all emanate from somebody who wishes to annoy and to give pain. I can’t see why they should do so. It is probably the work of some of the servants who have given Mrs. Challoner so much trouble, or of some of their friends. At any rate, the matter is not one in which we can readily move; and to-day we will not call Mrs. Challoner’s attention to it. She has but too much trouble already!” “Yes, indeed!” sighed Tom. “We’ve all been terribly upset since yesterday. We scarcely know what we are doing. I left my gas turned on this morning, and not alight, and Mrs. Challoner got so nervous that she tried if all the other burners were right, and turned them on by mistake!” Mr. Somerset did not pay much heed to these domestic catastrophes. He was preparing to accompany Tom back to Pelham Street. He wanted to see Mrs. Grant himself. He did not forget that the Challoners’ woe involved hers, and like their true friend, as he was, he wished to show all the attention and hospitality which he knew they would have desired to tender to a woman under such anxiety. He found Lucy, as Mrs. Grant whispered, “holding on bravely.” She was even preparing to accompany her guest to the railway station, to see her off on her homeward journey. But she was not reluctant to yield to Mr. Somerset’s request that she would delegate this duty to him—a proposal which Mrs. Grant backed with much urgency. “Keep her to her work, all you good friends of hers,” whispered that worthy woman. “Never mind her getting tired. For the rest, let her be quiet when she wishes it. Spare her from all the little squalid worries you can; I don’t mean keep them from her, but stand between her and them; let her get them, as it were, passed through you first. Ah, I know!” added Mrs. Grant; “for as I’m a sailor’s wife, so am I a sailor’s daughter, and what we’re bearing to-day, I’ve seen my mother live through thrice—once for her husband, and twice for her sons.” As their cab drew up at the station, it had to wait a second while a carriage drove off. “Dr. Ivery’s carriage,” whispered sharp Tom to Mr. Somerset. “So I suppose he is in the station.” True enough, as they passed through the booking-office, there was Dr. Ivery taking his ticket. Mr. Somerset knew him, having met him several times during Mr. Challoner’s illness. They greeted each other, Mrs. Grant and Tom passing on. Mrs. Grant’s train was already in the station, but would not start for another quarter of an hour.