"He could not be as safe anywhere in England as here," concluded Mr. Smith, as if he divined Karl's thoughts. "The police would suspect every hole and corner of the country, every town, little and big, before they would suspect his own home. As to the sailing away for another land, the danger of his recognition would be too great both on the voyage and on embarking for it, for him to dare it. He'd be discovered as sure as apple-trees grow apples." "Will it be better to tell him of this!" cried Karl, alluding to the newspaper. "I think not. Just as you please, though, Sir Karl. Rely upon it, it is only what I suggest--an emanation from some penny-a-liner's inventive brain." "The paper had better be burnt," suggested Karl. "The very instant I get home," said Mr. Smith, putting the paper in his pocket and taking his hat from the table. "I wish I could burn the whole impression--already gone forth to the world. I'll go out this way, Sir Karl, if you will allow me." Opening the glass doors again, he stepped across the terrace to the lawn, talking still, as though continuing the conversation. Other windows stood open, and the agent was cautious. "I'll be sure to see Seaford in the course of the day. You may trust to me not to let any of them get behind-hand with their rents. Good morning, Sir Karl." The agent, however, did not turn into his house. Deep in thought, he strolled on, up the road, his free hand in his light coat pocket, his head bent in meditation. He wished he could obtain some little light as to this mysterious announcement; he fancied he might be able to. On he strolled, unthinkingly, until he came to St. Jerome's, the entrance door of which edifice was ajar. "Holding one of their services," thought the agent. "I'll have a look in, and see Cattacomb surrounded by his flock of lambs." Mr. Smith was disappointed: for the reverend gentleman was not there. It appeared to be the hour for cleaning the room, instead of one for holding service. Four or five young ladies, their gowns turned up round their waists and some old gloves on, were dusting, sweeping, and brushing with all their might and main; Miss Blake presiding as high priestess of the ceremonies. "They'd not do such a thing in their own homes to save their lives," laughed the agent, coming softly out again unseen. "Cattacomb must be in clover among 'em!" He went home then, looked attentively once more at the alarming paragraph, and burnt the newspaper. After that, he paced his little garden, as if in a fit of restlessness, and then leaned over the gate, lost in reflection. The trees of the Maze were perfectly still in the hot summer air; the road was dusty and not a single passenger to be seen on it. A few minutes, and footsteps broke upon his ear. They were Miss Blake's, bringing her home from St. Jerome's. She stopped to shake hands. "Well," said he, with a laugh, "all the scrubbing done?" "How do you know anything about the scrubbing?" returned Miss Blake.