'Yes--why--he,' said Doctor Houghton dryly; 'there was another reason why he did not mention its existence to Mrs. Calverley. The fact is, that this little retreat had another occupant.' And the doctor paused and looked at Martin with a serio-comic expression. 'I am at a loss again,' said the clergyman; 'I do not understand you.' 'My good sir,' said Doctor Houghton, 'your parish must lie a long way out of the world. Don't you comprehend? Mr. Calverley did not live alone at Hendon; there was a young woman there.' 'What!' cried Martin Gurwood, staggering back against the mantelpiece; 'do you mean to say that this man, so looked up to and respected, has been living for years in open crime?' 'Scarcely in open crime, my good sir,' said the doctor, 'as is proved by the fact that it has been kept quiet so long. Moreover, he is gone, poor fellow; and though there can be no question of his guilt, there may have been what the lawyers call extenuating circumstances. I fancy, from what I saw of him, That Mr. Calverley was of all men inclined to be happy in his home, had matters run smoothly.' 'I think you are very right, sir,' said Martin Gurwood; 'and it is not for me to judge him, Heaven knows, nor,' he added, seeing the doctor's eyes firmly fixed on him, 'nor any other sinful man. You have so astonished me by your revelation that I feel myself almost incapable of any farther action at present. You did perfectly right in concealing this dreadful story from my mother; she must be kept in ignorance of it as long as possible. Now, what else is there to be said?' 'Nothing, after you have given me the address of the undertakers you wish to employ.' 'I know none in London, nor, I am sure, does my mother. You will be more accustomed to such matters, and I should be obliged to you to act for us.' 'Very well,' said Doctor Haughton. 'I will give orders that the body be fetched from the tavern, where it is now lying, and brought here to-night. I will see you in a day or two; and I think you may trust to me for arranging the business without any unpleasant legal inquiry, under which the facts might possibly come to light.' Martin Gurwood shook hands with his retiring visitors, and followed them to the door, which he closed behind them and carefully locked. Then returning to the chair which he had occupied he fell on his knees beside it, and prayed long and fervently. He must have felt strong love for the man whose death and whose crime had just been revealed to him; the story just narrated must have struck deeply into his soul; for when he lifted his face from between his hands where it had been buried, it was strained, and seared, and tear-blurred.