I did not hear Cartmell come in--I had been out before breakfast, and I believe I had left my door ajar. His hand was on my shoulder before I was aware of his presence. He held a morning paper in his hand, but he did not show it to me directly. He looked down in my face as I sat in my arm-chair and then said, "You've heard, haven't you?" "Yes," I answered, giving him Jenny's telegram. He read it. "This must be between you and me, Austin. So far, there's nothing in the paper to show that she was there--to show who the woman was, I mean." "The woman?" "The woman mentioned in the paper. Read it." He pushed it into my hand. His practical mind did not waste itself in memories or speculation; it flew to the present need. I had lost myself in wonderings about the man and the woman; he was concerned solely with our local institution--Miss Driver of Breysgate. He was right. The telegram in the paper came from Reuter's news agency. "A quarrel in the Cafe de l'Univers last night resulted in a duel this morning, in which an Englishman named Octon was mortally wounded at the first fire. He subsequently expired at the house of a lady, understood to be Mrs. Octon, in the Rue Balzac, to which he had been carried at his own request." Beneath was a short paragraph stating that it was conjectured that the "deceased gentleman" was "Mr. Leonard Octon, the well-known traveler and entomologist." On inquiry at his publishers', those gentlemen had stated that Mr. Octon was, to their knowledge, traveling in France. "Not much harm done if it stops there," said Cartmell, thoughtfully rubbing his hands together. "How can it? There'll have to be an inquest--or something corresponding to it, I suppose?" "She's very clever." "Will she care about being clever?" I asked, studying the paragraph again. "Understood to be Mrs. Octon" had a smack of Jenny's own ambiguity and elusiveness. And it hardly sounded as though the house to which he had been carried at his own request were the house where he himself had been lodging. "Of course it'll be all over Catsford in an hour. There's no helping that. But, as I say, there's no particular harm done yet." "They'll guess, won't they?" "Of course they will; but there's all the difference between guessing and having it in print. We must wait. I've got to go out of town--and I'm glad of it." I did not go away, but I hid myself. The only person I saw that day was Chat: she was entitled to the news. Telling her was sad work; her devotion to Octon rose up against her accusingly. She railed at herself for all her dealings with Jenny; old-time delinquencies in duty at the Simpsons' dressed themselves in the guise of great crimes; she had been a guilty party to Jenny's misdemeanors; they had led to this.