"Eighty-one," said Paul, looking at the long list of figures Sylvia had been trying to add up. "Why do you make your head ache with these accounts, darling?" "I must help Debby, Paul, and I get on very well with the aid of an arithmetic." And she pointed to a small school book which she had evidently been studying. "Let me take the burden from your shoulders," said her lover, smiling, and sat down at the table which was strewn with bills. In about an hour he had arranged all these, and had made them out neatly to Deborah's various customers. Then he directed the envelopes, and Sylvia sealed them up. All the time they laughed and chatted, and despite the dull toil thoroughly enjoyed themselves. "But I am glad to see, Sylvia," said Beecot, pointing to three library volumes lying on the sofa, "that you enjoy yourself occasionally." "Oh!" said Sylvia, pouncing on these, "I'm so glad you spoke, Paul; I wanted to say something to you. _The Confessions of a Thug_," she read out, and looked at Paul. "Have you read it?" Beecot nodded. "By Colonel Meadows Taylor. A very interesting book, but rather a bloodthirsty one for you, dearest." "Debby got it," confessed Miss Norman, "along with some other books from a literary customer who could not pay his bill. It is very strange, Paul, that _The Confessions of a Thug_ should be amongst the books." "Really I don't see why," smiled Beecot, fingering the old-fashioned volumes. "It's the finger of Fate, Paul," said Sylvia, solemnly. Then seeing her lover look puzzled, "I mean, that I should find out what goor is?" "Goor?" Paul looked more puzzled than ever. "It's an Indian word," explained Sylvia, "and means coarse sugar. The Thugs eat it before they strangle anyone." "Oh," laughed Beecot, "and you think your father was strangled by a Thug? My dear child, the Thugs were stamped out years ago. You'll read all about it in the preface of that book, if I remember. But it's long since I read the work. Besides, darling," he added, drawing her to him caressingly, "the Thugs never came to England." "Paul," said Sylvia, still more solemnly and resenting the laugh, "do you remember the Thug that came into the shop--" "Oh, you mean the street-hawker that Bart spoke of. Yes, I remember that such an Indian entered, according to Bart's tale, and wanted to sell boot-laces, while that young imp, Tray, was dancing on poor Bart's body. But the Indian wasn't a Thug, Sylvia." "Yes, he was," she exclaimed excitedly. "Hokar, he said he was, and Hokar was a Thug. Remember the handful of coarse brown sugar he left on the counter? Didn't Bart tell you of that?" Paul started. "Yes, by Jove! he did," was his reply. "Well, then," said Sylvia, triumphantly, "that sugar was goor, and the Thugs eat it before strangling anyone, and father was strangled."