ded at the first fire.
He subsequently expired at the house of a lady, understood to be Mrs.
Octon, in the Rue Balzac, to which he had been carried at his own
request."

Beneath was a short paragraph stating that it was conjectured that the
"deceased gentleman" was "Mr. Leonard Octon, the well-known traveler and
entomologist." On inquiry at his publishers', those gentlemen had stated
that Mr. Octon was, to their knowledge, traveling in France.

"Not much harm done if it stops there," said Cartmell, thoughtfully
rubbing his hands together.

"How can it? There'll have to be an inquest--or something corresponding
to it, I suppose?"

"She's very clever."

"Will she care about being clever?" I asked, studying the paragraph
again. "Understood to be Mrs. Octon" had a smack of Jenny's own
ambiguity and elusiveness. And it hardly sounded as though the house to
which he had been carried at his own request were the house where he
himself had been lodging.

"Of course it'll be all over Catsford in an hour. There's no helping
that. But, as I say, there's no particular harm done yet."

"They'll guess, won't they?"

"Of course they will; but there's all the difference between guessing
and having it in print. We must wait. I've got to go out of town--and
I'm glad of it."

I did not go away, but I hid myself. The only person I saw that day was
Chat: she was entitled to the news.

Telling her was sad work; her devotion to Octon rose up against her
accusingly. She railed at herself for all her dealings with Jenny;
old-time delinquencies in duty at the Simpsons' dressed themselves in
the guise of great crimes; she had been a guilty party to Jenny's
misdemeanors; they had led to this.

"I shall have to render an account for it," said poor Chat, rocking her
body to and fro, as was her habit in moments of agitation: her speech
was obviously reminiscent of church services. "If I had done my duty by
her, this would never have happened." I am afraid that "this" meant the
scandal, rather than any conduct which gave rise to it. But if Chat were
going to be so aggressively penitent as this, the case was lost.

"We must hope for the best--and, anyhow, put the best face on it," I
urged.

Chat cheered up a little. "Dear Jenny is very resourceful." Cartmell had
observed that she was clever. I was waiting with a vague expectancy for
some move from her, some turn or twist in her favor. We had not lost
faith in her, any of us; the faith