Lord Caranby was tall and thin--almost emaciated--with a lean, sallow, clean-shaven face, and a scanty crop of fair hair mixed with gray. His eyes were sunken but full of vitality, although usually they were grave and somewhat sad. His hands were deformed with gout, but for all that he wore several costly rings. He was perfectly dressed, and as quiet and composed as an artist's model. When he spoke it was in an unemotional way, as though he had exhausted all expression of his feelings early in life. Perhaps he had, for from what Cuthbert had heard from his uncle, the past of that nobleman was not without excitement. But Caranby's name was rarely mentioned in London. He remained so much abroad that he had quite dropped out of the circle to the entry of which his rank entitled him. His age was sixty-five. "You are surprised at seeing me again to-night," said Cuthbert. "I am never surprised at anything," replied his uncle dryly, "but we exhausted all we had to say to one another before eight o'clock last night, at which time you left. I therefore don't know why you have come this evening. Our conversation is bound to be dull, and--excuse me--I can't afford to be bored at my age." "I cannot say that our conversation was particularly agreeable last night," rejoined Mallow, equally dryly, "we talked business and money matters, and about your will." "And about your engagement also," said Caranby without a vestige of a smile. "That should interest a young man of your ardent temperament. I certainly thought the subject amused you." "Would you be surprised to learn that my engagement has been broken off since our conversation," said Cuthbert, crossing his legs. "No! Who can account for the whims of a woman. After all, perhaps you are to be congratulated on not marrying a weathercock." "Juliet has nothing to do with the breaking of our engagement. Her mother objects." "I understood for the last six months that her mother not only approved, but was delighted." "That is the strange part, sir. On hearing of the death of her sister, Mrs. Octagon suddenly changed her mind, and told me that the marriage could not take place." "Did she give any reason?" "She declined to do so." "The same woman," muttered Caranby, "always mysterious and unsatisfactory. You say her sister is dead?" Cuthbert cast a look at the Globe, which lay on a small table near Caranby's elbow. "If you have read the papers, sir--" "Yes! I have read that Miss Loach has been murdered. You went down to Rexton to-day. I presume you heard something more than the details set forth by the press." Cuthbert nodded. "It appears to be a mystery." Caranby did not reply, but looked into the fire. "Poor Selina!" he said half to himself. "A sad end for such a charming woman." "I should hardly apply that word to Miss Loach, sir. She did not appear to be a lady, and was by no means refined."