“The Honourable Lady Ann Carthew,” he said, in an august whisper. And looking over his shoulder, I was aware of an old lady with a stick, hobbling somewhat briskly along the garden path. She must have been extremely handsome in her youth; and even the limp with which she walked could not deprive her of an unusual and almost menacing dignity of bearing. Melancholy was impressed besides on every feature, and her eyes, as she looked straight before her, seemed to contemplate misfortune. “She seems sad,” said I, when she had hobbled past and we had resumed our walk. “She enjoy rather poor spirits, sir,” responded the under-gardener. “Mr. Carthew--the old gentleman, I mean--died less than a year ago; Lord Tillibody, her ladyship's brother, two months after; and then there was the sad business about the young gentleman. Killed in the 'unting-field, sir; and her ladyship's favourite. The present Mr. Norris has never been so equally.” “So I have understood,” said I, persistently, and (I think) gracefully pursuing my inquiries and fortifying my position as a family friend. “Dear, dear, how sad! And has this change--poor Carthew's return, and all--has this not mended matters?” “Well, no, sir, not a sign of it,” was the reply. “Worse, we think, than ever.” “Dear, dear!” said I again. “When Mr. Norris arrived, she DID seem glad to see him,” he pursued; “and we were all pleased, I'm sure; for no one knows the young gentleman but what likes him. Ah, sir, it didn't last long! That very night they had a talk, and fell out or something; her ladyship took on most painful; it was like old days, but worse. And the next morning Mr. Norris was off again upon his travels. 'Denman,' he said to Mr. Denman, 'Denman, I'll never come back,' he said, and shook him by the 'and. I wouldn't be saying all this to a stranger, sir,” added my informant, overcome with a sudden fear lest he had gone too far. He had indeed told me much, and much that was unsuspected by himself. On that stormy night of his return, Carthew had told his story; the old lady had more upon her mind than mere bereavements; and among the mental pictures on which she looked, as she walked staring down the path, was one of Midway Island and the Flying Scud. Mr. Denman heard my inquiries with discomposure, but informed me the shyster was already gone. “Gone?” cried I. “Then what can he have come for? One thing I can tell you, it was not to see the house.” “I don't see it could have been anything else,” replied the butler. “You may depend upon it it was,” said I. “And whatever it was, he has got it. By the way, where is Mr. Carthew at present? I was sorry to find he was from home.” “He is engaged in travelling, sir,” replied the butler, dryly. “Ah, bravo!” cried I. “I laid a trap for you there, Mr. Denman. Now I need not ask you; I am sure you did not tell this prying stranger.” “To be sure not, sir,” said the butler.