It might be that Mr. Tatton was waiting--like a certain noted character with whom we all have the pleasure of an acquaintance--for "something to turn up." That he was contemplating some grand coup, which would throw his prize into his hands, while to the world and Mrs. Jinks he appeared only to be enjoying the salubrious Kentish air, and amusing himself with public politics generally, we may rest pretty well assured of. But this agreeable existence was suddenly cut short. One morning when Mr. Tatton's hopes and plans were, like Cardinal Wolsey's greatness, all a-ripening, he received a communication from Mr. Superintendent Game at Scotland Yard, conveying the astounding intelligence that the real Philip Salter had not been in Foxwood at all, but had just died in Canada. Mr. Tatton sat contemplating the letter. He could not have been much more astonished had a bombshell burst under him. Of the truth of the information there could be no question: its reliability was indisputable. One of the chief officers in the home police force who was in Canada on business, and had known Salter well, discovered him in the last stage of a wasting sickness, and saw him die. "I've never had such a fool's game to play at as _this_," ejaculated Mr. Tatton when sufficiently recovered to speak; "and never wish to have such another. What the deuce, then, is the mystery connected with the Maze?" Whatever it might be, it was now no business of his; though could he have afforded to waste more time and money, he would have liked very well to stay and track it out. Summoning the Widow Jinks to his presence, he informed her that he was called away suddenly on particular business; and then proceeded to pack up. Mrs. Jinks resented the departure as quite a personal injury, and wiped the soft tears from her eyes. On his way to the station he chanced to meet Sir Karl Andinnian: and the latter's heart went up with a great bound. The black bag in Mr. Tatton's hand, and the portmanteau being wheeled along beside him, spoke a whole volume of hope. "Good morning, Sir Karl. You have misled us finely as to the Maze." "Why, what do you mean, Mr. Tatton?" asked Karl. "Salter has turned up in Canada. Or, one might perhaps rather say, turned down; for he is dead, poor fellow." "Indeed!" "Indeed and in truth. One of our officers is over there, and was with him when he died. It was too bad of you to mislead us in this way, Sir Karl." "Nay, you misled yourselves." "A fine quantity of time I have wasted down here! weeks upon weeks; and all for nothing. I never was so vexed in my life." "You have yourself to blame--or those who sent you here. Certainly not me. The very first time I had the honour of speaking to you, Mr. Tatton, I assured you on the word of a gentleman that Salter was not at Foxwood." "Well, come, Sir Karl--what is the secret being enacted within the place over yonder?" pointing his finger in the direction of the Maze.