"Just the same; not altered a bit, unless it is to look more drab. Mrs Thickens--that woman's an impostor, sir. She has grown younger since she married." "Yes, she astonished me," said Bayle, smiling with satisfaction that his visitor had gone off dangerously painful ground, "plump, pleasant little body." "With fat filling up her creases and covering up her holes and corners!" cried Sir Gordon, interrupting. "Confound it all, sir, I could never get the fat to come and fill up my creases and furrows. I saw her standing there, feeding Thickens's fish, smiling at them, and as happy as the day was long. Deal happier than when she was Miss Heathery. Everybody seems to be happy but me. I never am." "See the Trampleasures?" said Bayle. "Oh, yes, saw them, and heard them, too. Regular ornament to the bank, Trampleasure. People believe in him, though. Talks to them, and asks the farmers in to lunch. If he were not there, they'd think Dixons' was going. Poor old Dixon, how cut up he was over that Hallam business! It killed him, Bayle." "Think so?" said Bayle, with his brow wrinkling. "Sure of it, sir. It was not the money he cared for; it was the principle of the thing. Dixons' name had stood so high in the town and neighbourhood. There was a mystery, too, about the matter that was never cleared up." "Hadn't we better change the subject, Sir Gordon?" "No, sir," said Bayle's visitor curtly. "Garrulity is one of the privileges of old age. We old men don't get many privileges; let me enjoy that. I like to gossip about old times to some one who understands them as you do. If you don't like to hear me, say so, and I will go." "No, no, pray stay, and I'll go down with you to the club." "Hah! That's right. Well, as I was saying, there was a bit of mystery about that which worried poor old Dixon terribly. We never could make out what the scoundrel had done with the money. He and that other fellow, Crellock, could easily get rid of a good deal; but there was a large sum unaccounted for, I'm sure." There was a pause here, and Sir Gordon seemed to be hesitating about saying something that was on his mind. "You wanted to tell me something," said Bayle at last. "Well, yes, I was going to say you see a deal of the widow, don't you?" "Widow? What widow? Oh, Mrs Richardson. Poor thing, yes; but how did you know I took an interest in her? Hah! there: you may give me ten pounds for her." "Mrs Richardson! Pooh! I mean Mrs Hallam." "Widow?" "Well, yes; what else is she? Husband transported for life. The man is socially dead." "You do not know Mrs Hallam," said Bayle gravely. "Do you think she believes in him still?" "With her whole heart. He is to her the injured man, a victim to a legal error, and she lives in the belief which she has taught her child, that some day her martyr's reputation will be cleared, and that he will take his place among his fellow-men once more."