er people?"

"No," said Cutter, with a short laugh, "she never wrote to them."

"How very odd!" I exclaimed, as we entered the hall-door.

"It was odd," answered my companion, and went up-stairs. There was
something very unsatisfactory about him, I thought; and then I cursed my
own curiosity. What business was it all of mine? If Paul Patoff chose to
tell a diplomatic falsehood, it certainly did not concern me. It was
possible that his mother might have quarreled with her family,--indeed,
in former years I had sometimes thought as much from their never
mentioning her; and in that case it would be natural that her son might
not have cared to visit his relations when he was in England before. He
need not have made such a show of never having visited the country, but
people often do that sort of thing. And now it was probable that since
Madame Patoff had been insane there might have been a reconciliation and
a smoothing over of the family difficulties. I had no idea where Madame
Patoff might be. I could not ask any one such a delicate question, for I
supposed she was confined in an asylum, and no one volunteered the
information. Probably Cutter's visit to Carvel Place was connected with
her sad state; perhaps Patoff's coming might be the result of it, also.
It was impossible to say. But of this I was certain: that John Carvel
and his wife had both grown older and sadder in the past two years, and
that there was an air of concealment about the house which made me very
uncomfortable. I have been connected with more than one odd story in my
time, and I confess that I no longer care for excitement as I once did.
If people are going to get into trouble, I would rather not be there to
see it, and I have a strong dislike to being suddenly called upon to
play an unexpected part in sensational events. Above all, I hate
mystery; I hate the mournful air of superior sorrow that hangs about
people who have a disagreeable secret, and the constant depression of
long-protracted anxiety in those about me. It spoiled my pleasure in the
quiet country life to see John's face grow every day more grave and Mary
Carvel's eyes turn sadder. Pain of any sort is unpleasant to witness,
but there is nothing so depressing as to watch the progress of
melancholy in one's friends; to feel that from some cause which they
will not confide they are losing peace and health and happiness. Even if
one knew the cause one might not be able to do anything to remov