“I’ve not been ill at all!” “Sir Isaac told her.” “Told her I was ill!” “Dangerously ill. That you couldn’t bear to be disturbed.” “But _when_, Mr. Brumley?” “Three days ago.” They both looked at Sir Isaac who was sitting on the music stool and eating a piece of tea-cake with a preoccupied air. He swallowed and then spoke thoughtfully—in a tone of detached observation. Nothing but a slight reddening of the eyes betrayed any unusual feeling in him. “It’s my opinion,” he said, “that that old lady—Lady Beach-Mandarin I mean—doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time. She says—oh! remarkable things. Saying _that_ for example!” “But did she call on me?” “She called. I’m surprised you didn’t hear. And she was all in a flurry for going on.... Did you come down, Mr. Brumley, to see if Lady Harman was ill?” “That weighed with me.” “Well,—you see she isn’t,” said Sir Isaac and brushed a stray crumb from his coat.... Mr. Brumley was at last impelled gateward and Sir Isaac saw him as far as the high-road. “Good-bye!” cried Mr. Brumley with excessive amiability. Sir Isaac with soundless lips made a good-bye like gesture. “And now,” said Sir Isaac to himself with extreme bitterness, “now to see about getting a dog.” “Bull mastiff?” said Sir Isaac developing his idea as he went back to Lady Harman. “Or perhaps a Thoroughly Vicious collie?” “How did that chap get in?” he demanded. “What had he got to say to you?” “He came in—to look at the garden,” said Lady Harman. “And of course he wanted to know if I had been well—because of Lady Viping’s party. And I suppose because of what you told Lady Beach-Mandarin.” Sir Isaac grunted doubtfully. He thought of Snagsby and of all the instructions he had given Snagsby. He turned about and went off swiftly and earnestly to find Snagsby.... Snagsby lied. But Sir Isaac was able to tell from the agitated way in which he was cleaning his perfectly clean silver at that unseasonable hour that the wretched man was lying. §8 Quite a number of words came to the lips of Mr. Brumley as he went unwillingly along the pleasant country road that led from Black Strand to the railway station. But the word he ultimately said showed how strongly the habits of the gentlemanly _littérateur_ prevailed in him. It was the one inevitable word for his mood,—“Baffled!” Close upon its utterance came the weak irritation of the impotent man. “What the _devil_?” cried Mr. Brumley. Some critical spirit within him asked him urgently why he was going to the station, what he thought he was doing, what he thought he had done, and what he thought he was going to do. To all of which questions Mr. Brumley perceived he had no adequate reply.