a peal of laughter. "What a quaint creature
you are!" she said. "Whatever made you think of that?"

"Well, he is like that--isn't he? I mean, you never know the moment
when his wife isn't going to hear a rumour. Then he shams dead, and
the next time he sees you, he just manages, with an effort, to
recognize you by your appearance."

"Is that what happened to Devenish?" asked Mrs. Durlacher with
amusement.

"I expect so. I never heard that his wife knew anything; but from
the way he suddenly fell in a heap, I should think it's quite likely.
And he's shamming still."

"Well, let him sham. I don't think he's worth anything else." She
paused, watching the effect of her words. "Oh, and you never told
me what you thought of my brother yesterday?"

"I think he's rather quaint."

"Yes, isn't he? I'm glad you like him."

"But why haven't I met him before? Don't you ever ask him down to
Apsley? I never realized you'd got a brother, you know, till the other
day you showed me that case in the paper."

"Very few people I know do," replied Mrs. Durlacher, whereby she
created a sense of the mysterious, raised curiosity and played a hand
that needed all her skill, all her ingenuity. "I shouldn't have told
you about him, even then," she continued, "if it hadn't been fairly
obvious to me that he was becoming a different sort of person."

"Why, what sort of an individual has he been?"

Mrs. Durlacher told her. Ah, but she made the telling interesting.
A man who owns such a place in the country as Apsley Manor, yet prefers
to live the life of the Bohemian in town, shunning society, reaping
none of the benefits that should naturally accrue to him from such
a position, can quite easily be surrounded with a halo of interest
if his narrative be placed in the hands of a skilful raconteur. Mrs.
Durlacher spared no pains in the telling of her story. Led it up
slowly through its various stages to the crisis, the crisis as she
made it. He owned Apsley Manor, not they! It was his property, capable
of repurchase at any moment! And--she leant back in her chair,
covering her face with her hands as though the blow were an unbearable
tragedy to her--he had said that he would take the place back. Five
thousand pounds was nothing to him. He could find it at a moment's
notice. So would any one, when such a place as Apsley was in the
balance.

"You can imagine," she concluded--bearing it bravely with the
resignation of martyrdom--"what a catas