se
her.'

'I'm sure I shan't put myself out of the way. People must take me as
they find me.'

'Now don't talk like that, Fanny. It isn't very kind--just now. I
thought you'd be different to-day.'

'All right.--Have you anything else to tell me?'

Horace understood her significant glance, and shook his head.

'I'll let you know everything as soon as I know myself.'

Having learnt the day and hour of Mr. Lord's funeral, Ada and Fanny
made a point of walking out to get a glimpse of it. The procession of
vehicles in Grove Lane excited their contempt, so far was it from the
splendour they had anticipated.

'There you are!' said Ada; 'I shouldn't wonder if it's going to be a
jolly good take in for you, after all. If he'd died worth much, they
wouldn't have buried him like that.'

Fanny's heart sank. She could conceive no other explanation of a simple
burial save lack of means, or resentment in the survivors at the
disposition made of his property by the deceased. When, on the morrow,
Horace told her that his father had strictly charged Mr Barmby to have
him buried in the simplest mode compatible with decency, she put it down
to the old man's excessive meanness.

On this occasion she learnt the contents of Mr. Lord's will, and having
learnt them, got rid of Horace as soon as possible that she might
astonish her sisters with the report.

In the afternoon of that day, Beatrice had an appointment with Luckworth
Crewe. She was to meet him at the office he had just taken in
Farringdon Street, whence they would repair to a solicitor's in the same
neighbourhood, for the discussion of legal business connected with Miss.
French's enterprise. She climbed the staircase of a big building, and
was directed to the right door by the sound of Crewe's voice, loudly and
jocularly discoursing. He stood with two men in the open doorway, and at
the sight of Beatrice waved a hand to her.

'Take your hook, you fellows; I have an engagement.' The men, glancing
at Miss. French facetiously, went their way. 'How do, old chum? It's all
in a mess yet; hold your skirts together. Come along this way.'

Through glue-pots and shavings and an overpowering smell of paint,
Beatrice followed to inspect the premises, which consisted of three
rooms; one, very much the smallest, about ten feet square. Three
workmen were busy, and one, fitting up shelves, whistled a melody with
ear-piercing shrillness.

'Stop that damned noise!' shouted Crewe. 'I've