yesterday. I thought perhaps
you didn't know."

There was dead silence for an instant.

"No, I didn't know," said Frank. "Who's he married?"

"Somebody I never heard of. I wondered whether you knew her."

"What's her name?"

"Wait a second," said the other, plunging under his greatcoat to get at
his waistcoat pocket. "I've got the paragraph here. I cut it out of the
_Morning Post_. I only saw it half an hour ago. I was coming round to
you this evening."

He produced a slip of printed paper. Frank stood still a moment, leaning
against some area-railings--they were in the distinguished quarter of
Victoria Park Road--and read the paragraph through. The clergyman
watched him curiously. It seemed to him a very remarkable situation that
he should be standing here in Victoria Park Road, giving information to
a son as to his father's marriage. He wondered, but only secondarily,
what effect it would have upon Frank.

Frank gave him the paper back without a tremor.

"Thanks very much," he said. "No; I didn't know."

They continued to walk.

"D'you know her at all?"

"Yes, I know her. She's the Rector's daughter, you know."

"What! At Merefield? Then you must know her quite well."

"Oh! yes," said Frank, "I know her quite well."

Again there was silence. Then the other burst out:

"Look here--I wish you'd let me do something. It seems to me perfectly
ghastly--"

"My dear man," said Frank. "Indeed you can't do anything.... You got my
note, didn't you?"

The clergyman nodded.

"It's just in case I'm ill, or anything, you know. Jack's a great friend
of mine. And it's just as well that some friend of mine should be able
to find out where I am. I've just written to him myself, as I said in my
note. But you mustn't give him my address unless in case of real need."

"All right. But are you sure--"

"I'm perfectly sure.... Oh! by the way, that lady you sent round did no
good. I expect she told you?"

"Yes; she said she'd never come across such a difficult case."

"Well, I shall have to try again myself.... I must turn off here. Good
luck!"

(IV)

Gertie was sitting alone in the kitchen about nine o'clock that
night--alone, that is to say, except for the sleeping 'Erb, who, in a
cot at the foot of his mother's bed, was almost invisible under a pile
of clothes, and completely negligible as a witness. Mrs. Partington,
with the other two children, was paying a prolonged visit in Mortimer
Road, and the Major,