take time by the
forelock, and give you my card." Here Mr. Tatt left off explaining, and
began to play with his terrier.

Mat looked up thoughtfully at Joanna Grice's cottage. Might she not, in
all probability, have left some important letters behind her? And, if
he mentioned who he was, could not the wizen man by his side help him to
get at them?

"A good deal of mystery about the late Miss Grice," resumed Mr. Tatt,
still playing with the terrier. "Nobody but Dix and Nawby can tell
exactly when she died, or how she's left her money. Queer family
altogether. (Rats, Pincher! where are the rats?) There's a son of old
Grice's, who has never, they say, been properly accounted for. (Hie,
boy! there's a cat! hie after her, Pincher!) If he was only to turn up
now, I believe, between ourselves, it would put such a spoke in Nawby's
wheel--"

"I may have a question or two to ask you one of these days," interposed
Mat, turning away from the garden paling at last. While his new
acquaintance had been speaking, he had been making up his mind that he
should best serve his purpose of tracing Arthur Carr, by endeavoring
forthwith to get all the information that Mrs. Peckover might be able to
afford him. In the event of this resource proving useless, there would
be plenty of time to return to Dibbledean, discover himself to Mr. Tatt,
and ascertain whether the law would not give to Joshua Grice's son the
right of examining Joanna Grice's papers.

"Come to my office," cried Mr. Tatt, enthusiastically. "I can give you
a prime bit of Stilton, and as good a glass of bitter beer as ever you
drank in your life."

Mat declined this hospitable invitation peremptorily, and set forth at
once on his return to the station. All Mr. Tatt's efforts to engage
him for an "early day," and an "appointed hour," failed. He would only
repeat, doggedly, that at some future time he might have a question or
two to ask about a matter of law, and that his new acquaintance should
then be the man to whom he would apply for information.

They wished each other "good morning" at the entrance of the lane,--Mr.
Tatt lounging slowly up the High Street, with his terrier at his heels;
and Mat walking rapidly in the contrary direction, on his way back to
the railway station.

As he passed the churchyard, the funeral procession had just arrived
at its destination, and the bearers were carrying the coffin from the
hearse to the church door. He stopped a little by the