"There is nothing in the evidence which has been made public," said Martin Gurwood, in a hard caustic tone, "to warrant any supposition of that kind. In any case, it is not for us to judge the dead and--" "Perhaps," said Pauline, interposing, to avert the storm which she saw gathering in Mrs. Calverley's knitted brows, "perhaps when Mr. Calverley returns to-night, he will be able to give us some information on the subject. A man so trusted, and appointed to such a position, must naturally be well known to his employer." The lamps were lit in the drawing-room, and the solemn servants were handing round the tea, when a cab rattled up to the door, and immediately afterwards John Calverley, enveloped in his travelling-coat and many wrappers, burst into the apartment. He made his way to his wife, who was seated at the Berlin-wool frame, on which the Jael and Sisera had been supplanted by a new and equally interesting subject, and bending down offered her a salute, which she received on the tip of her ear; he shook hands heartily with Martin Garwood, politely with Pauline, and then discarding his outer garments, planted himself in the middle of the room, smiling pleasantly, and inquired, "Well, what's the news?" "There is no news here," said Mrs. Calverley, looking across the top of the Berlin-wool frame with stony glance; "those who have been careering about the country are most likely to gather light and frivolous gossip. Do you desire any refreshment, Mr. Calverley?" "No, thank you, my dear," said John. "I had dinner at six o'clock, at Peterborough--swallowed it standing--cold meat, roll, glass of ale. You know the sort of thing, Martin--hurried, but not bad, you know--not bad." "But after such a slight refreshment, Monsieur Calverley," said Pauline, rising and going towards him, "you would surely like some tea?" "No, thank you, Madame Du Tertre; no tea for me. I will have a little--a little something hot later on, perhaps--and you too, Martin, eh?--no, I forgot, you are no good at that sort of thing. And so," he added, turning to his wife, "you have, you say, no news?" "Mrs. Calverley does herself injustice in saying any such thing," said Pauline, interposing; "the interests of the husband are the interests of the wife, and, when it is permitted, of the wife's friends; and we have all been distressed beyond measure to hear of the sad fate which has befallen your trusted agent." "Eh," said John Calverley, looking at her blankly, "my trusted agent? I don't understand you." "These celebrated Swartmoor Ironworks are not beyond the reach of the post-office, I presume?" said Mrs. Calverley, with a vicious chuckle. "Certainly not," said John. "And telegrams occasionally find their way there, I suppose?" "Undoubtedly." "How is it, then, Mr. Calverley, that you have not heard what has been in all the newspapers, that some man named Durham, calling himself your agent, has been drowned on his way to India, where he was going in your employ?"