“What I can’t understand is,” continued the carpenter, “’ow the news got about. Why, the neighbours knew of it a couple of hours before we did.” The dealer hid a grin. Then he looked a bit bewildered again. “I assure you,” said the carpenter, “it was known in the town at least a couple of hours before we got the letter.” Mr. Miller waited a minute to get perfect control over his features. “Letter?” he repeated, faintly. “The letter from the lawyers,” said the carpenter. Mr. Miller was silent again. His features were getting tiresome. He eyed the door furtively. “What-was-in-the letter?” he asked. “Short and sweet,” said the carpenter, with bitterness. “Said it was all a mistake, because they’d been and found another will. People shouldn’t make such mistakes.” “We’re all liable to make mistakes,” said Miller, thinking he saw an opening. “Yes, we made a mistake when we thought you was after Ann’s money,” assented the carpenter. “I’m sure I thought you’d be the last man in the world to be pleased to hear that she’d lost it. One thing is, you’ve got enough for both.” Mr. Miller made no reply, but in a dazed way strove to realize the full measure of the misfortune which had befallen him. The neighbour, with the anxiety of her sex to be the first with a bit of news, had already taken her departure. He thought of Wiggett walking the earth a free man, and of Smith with a three-months’ bill for twenty pounds. His pride as a dealer was shattered beyond repair, and emerging from a species of mist, he became conscious that the carpenter was addressing him. [Illustration: “We’ll leave you two young things alone.”] “We’ll leave you two young things alone for a bit,” said Mr. Tidger, heartily. “We’re going out. When you’re tired o’ courting you can play draughts, and Ann will show you one or two of ’er moves. So long.” THREE AT TABLE The talk in the coffee-room had been of ghosts and apparitions, and nearly everybody present had contributed his mite to the stock of information upon a hazy and somewhat thread-bare subject. Opinions ranged from rank incredulity to childlike faith, one believer going so far as to denounce unbelief as impious, with a reference to the Witch of Endor, which was somewhat marred by being complicated in an inexplicable fashion with the story of Jonah. “Talking of Jonah,” he said solemnly, with a happy disregard of the fact that he had declined to answer several eager questions put to him on the subject, “look at the strange tales sailors tell us.” “I wouldn’t advise you to believe all those,” said a bluff, clean-shaven man, who had been listening without speaking much. “You see when a sailor gets ashore he’s expected to have something to tell, and his friends would be rather disappointed if he had not.” “It’s a well-known fact,” interrupted the first speaker firmly, “that sailors are very prone to see visions.”