"Faithful!" growled the coachman, "an' why not? Joe Brill was paid higher nor any of us, he was; just as of living all his life with an iceberg deserved it!" "Poor Dick _was_ an iceberg!" sighed Cicero pensively. "A cold, secretive man." "Ah!" said Mrs. Crammer, wiping her eye, "you may well say that. He 'ad secrets, I'm sure, and guilty ones, too!" "We all have our skeletons, ma'am. But would you mind giving me something to eat and to drink? for I have walked a long way. I am too poor," said Cicero, with a sweet smile, "to ride, as in the days of my infancy, but _spero meliora_." "Talking about skeletons, sir," said the footman when Mr. Gramp's jaws were fully occupied, "what about the master's?" "Ah!" said Gramp profoundly. "What indeed!" "But whatever it is, it has to do with the West Indies," said the man. "Lor'!" exclaimed the housemaid, "and how do you know that, Mr. Thomas?" "From observation, Jane, my dear," Thomas smiled loftily. "A week or two afore master had the fit as took him, I brought in a letter with the West Indy stamp. He turned white as chalk when he saw it, and tore it open afore I could get out of the room. I 'ad to fetch a glass of whisky. He was struck all of a 'eap--gaspin', faintin', and cussin' orful." "Did he show it to Miss Sophy?" asked Mrs. Crammer. "Not as I knows of. He kept his business to hisself," replied Thomas. Gramp was taking in all this with greedy ear's. "Ha!" he said, "when you took in the letter, might you have looked at the postmark, my friend?" With an access of color, the footman admitted that he had been curious enough to do so. "And the postmark was Kingston, Jamaica," said he. "It recalls my youth," said Cicero. "Ah! they were happy, happy days!" "What was Mr. Marlow, sir?" "A planter of--of--rice," hazarded Gramp. He knew that there were planters in the West Indies, but he was not quite sure what it was they planted. "Rice--acres of it!" "Well, he didn't make his money out of that, sir," growled the coachman. "No, he did not," admitted the professor of elocution. "He acquired his millions in Mashonaland--the Ophir of the Jews." This last piece of knowledge had been acquired from Slack, the schoolmaster. "He was precious careful not to part with none of it," said the footman. "Except to Dr. Warrender," said the cook. "The doctor was always screwing money out of him. Not that it was so much 'im as 'is wife. I can't abear that doctor's wife--a stuck-up peacock, I call her. She fairly ruined her husband in clothes. Miss Sophy didn't like her, neither." "Dick's child!" cried Gramp, who had by this time procured a cigar from the footman. "Ah! is little Sophy still alive?" He lighted the cigar and puffed luxuriously. "Still alive!" echoed Mrs. Crammer, "and as pretty as a picture. Dark 'air, dark eyes--not a bit like 'er father."