For an instant Mr. Copperdock made no reply. His face grew even redder than usual, and he picked with his fingers at the arms of his chair. Mr. Ludgrove, recognising the symptoms, knew that at last he was approaching the point of this late visit. He walked across the room, sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the fire, and waited. “Old Ben Colburn’s dead,” blurted out the tobacconist at last, as though the words had been torn from his lips. Mr. Ludgrove raised his eyebrows, “Indeed?” he murmured. “Rather a sudden end, surely? I was in the shop on Friday, talking to Dick, and he said nothing of his father being ill.” “No, he wouldn’t,” said Mr. Copperdock grimly, “He wasn’t taken ill until about two o’clock yesterday afternoon, and he was dead by tea-time.” “The usual story in such cases, I suppose?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove. “A diseased heart, and a sudden attack ending fatally?” “Worse than that,” replied Mr. Copperdock slowly. Then suddenly he raised his eyes and looked fixedly at his host. “What do you know about young Dick?” he asked. It was the herbalist’s turn to hesitate, “I might reply that I am a customer of his,” he said at last. “It would be the truth, but not the whole truth. To you, I do not mind admitting in the strictest confidence that he has several times come to me for advice. You will forgive me if I am unable to tell you anything further.” Mr. Copperdock nodded. It was well known that Mr. Ludgrove had never divulged even a hint of the curious stories which had been told him in hesitating whispers in the privacy of this very room. It was the certain knowledge that this was so which gave so many of his clients the courage to confess to him their most secret troubles. “Well, put it this way,” said Mr. Copperdock. “You know that young Dick and his father didn’t hit it off quite, don’t you?” “I may as well confess to that knowledge, since neither of them have made any secret of the fact,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “Old Ben was a bit of a character in his way,” continued Mr. Copperdock. “He used to drop in sometimes at the Cambridge Arms, and I got to know him quite well, in an off-hand sort of way. He had the idea that he was the only man in London who could bake bread, and he often used to tell me that he spent all day and half the night in the bakehouse. He said it was the finest one of its size anywhere, and he used to take me round and look at it sometimes. I couldn’t see anything wonderful about it, but that don’t matter. Ever been there yourself?” “Never into the bakehouse. I have been into the shop at least twice a week for the last four years,” replied Mr. Ludgrove.