ng at his familiar
pipe. "I saw something in the head-lines of the paper, but I did not
read the details. I've been writing some articles for the _Guardian_
lately, and my time has been so fully occupied."

Was this the truth? Or was he merely evading the necessity of
discussing the matter?

He had inquired after Sylvia, and I had been compelled to admit that
she was away. But I did so in such a manner that I implied she was
visiting friends.

Outside, the lawn, so bright and pleasant in summer, now looked damp
and dreary, littered by the brown drifting leaves of autumn.

Somehow I read in his grey face a strange expression, and detected an
eagerness to get rid of me. For the first time I found myself an
unwelcome visitor at the rectory.

"Have you seen Mr. Pennington of late?" I asked presently.

"No, not for some time. He wrote me from Brussels about a month ago,
and said that business was calling him to Spain. Have you seen him?"
he asked.

"Not very recently," I replied vaguely.

Then again I referred to the great robbery, whereat he said--

"Why, Mr. Biddulph, you appear as though you can't resist the
fascination that mysterious crime has for you! I suppose you are an
ardent novel-reader--eh? People fond of novels always devour newspaper
mysteries."

I admitted a fondness for healthy and exciting fiction, when he
laughed, saying--

"Well, I myself find that nearly half one reads in some of the
newspapers now-a-days may be classed as fiction. Even party politics
are full of fictions, more or less. Surely the public must find it
very difficult to winnow the truth from all the political lies, both
spoken and written. To me, elections are all mere campaigns of
untruth."

And so he again cleverly turned the drift of our conversation.

About five o'clock I left, driving back to Andover Junction, and
arriving at Waterloo in time for dinner.

I took a taxi at once to Wilton Street, but there was no letter from
Sylvia. She gave no sign. And, indeed, why should she, in face of her
letter of farewell?

I dressed, and sat down alone to my dinner for the first time in my
own dining-room since my wife's disappearance.

Lonely and sad, yet filled with fierce hatred of those blackguardly
adventurers, of whom her own father was evidently one, I sat silent,
while old Browning served the meal with that quiet stateliness which
was one of his chief characteristics. The old man had never once
mentioned his missing