“Dead!” repeated Mitty, staring blankly at her relative. Then she cast aside her apron and hurried into the hall. “Let us all go into the dining-room,” she continued, leading the way. “What a shocking thing, Mrs. Billing!”—turning to her visitor. “Do tell us the particulars. I can hardly believe it! Why, I saw Mr. Shafto in Bricklands on Tuesday, and he looked as well as he ever did in his life.” “That was the day he heard the news,” announced Mrs. Billing, selecting an arm-chair and casting off her feather boa. “Bad news?” suggested Miss Jane. “Very bad indeed—could not be worse. He heard he’d lost every penny he possessed in the wide world.” “Great patience!” ejaculated Miss Tebbs; “you don’t say so; but how?” “Well, you know he was always comfortably off; indeed, one might say rich.” “That’s true! They keep five maids indoors, and a charwoman three times a week, two men and a boy in the garden, and two men in the stables,” glibly enumerated Miss Jane. “All that is not done on small means, and I happen to know that Mr. Shafto himself paid everything monthly—which is more than we can say for his wife; even her bridge losses”; here she halted on the brink of scandal. After hesitating for a second, Mrs. Billing continued: “Well, it appears, from what my husband can gather, that Mr. Shafto trusted all his money and investments to a man who had managed his affairs for years, and in whom he had the most absolute confidence; he just drew his income regularly, lived his quiet life, and never troubled his head about business. It seems that for a considerable time this agent had been speculating with his clients’ capital, and paying them the interest to the day. He staved off the reckoning by every possible device, and when he could no longer hide his wickedness, when liabilities poured in, and proceedings were instituted, he shot himself! Not much comfort in that for the families he has beggared. I believe he had a splendid establishment at Hampstead; greenhouses, pictures, motor-cars, and entertained like a prince. He squandered the handsome fortune that was left to Mr. Shafto, and all that Mr. Shafto could be sure of, about a hundred and fifty pounds a year, belongs to Douglas.” “Oh, my dear, never mind the money, but do tell us about poor Mr. Shafto,” urged Jane. “What was the cause of his death? Suicide? This morning I thought I heard a shot!”