so indecent as this, I could not have
believed would have taken place, even in this
ill-regulated house."

Mr. Lethwaite stood in great fear of

Cantanker. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he
said, with his native politeness; " I am
extremely sorry. I was told to come to-day."

"Oh yes, no doubt; they knew what was going
to happen, and they didn't want to have their
rooms unlet for so much as a single hour. But
it's all of a piece—it's all of a piece. There,
you'd better go up-stairs, hadn't you, and take
your drums with you? You'll find them up
there as you won't easily disturb. Oh, Lord!
oh, Lord! that I should live to see this day."
And the wretched woman burst into a fit of
suppressed sobbing, and disappeared down the
kitchen stairs.

It was an unfortunate coincidence this, truly.
Gilbert had told his friend that the rooms would
be vacant, and had appointed him to come, and
then, in the agitation and confusion of what had
happened since, had forgotten all about it, as
well he might. It was unfortunate, too, that
the door should have been opened on this occasion
by Cantanker herself. The fact is, that she
had been waiting for some time in the passage,
expecting the arrival of something—something
that generally arrives in the dusk of the evening
—the last piece of furniture that any of us have
need of in this world. Expecting that, she had
opened the door, and then she had found Mr.
Lethwaite with his drums. In this world the
grotesque intrudes everywhere, cheek by jowl,
with the terrible, and no true narrator of earthly
sorrows is he who denies that ghastly element
its place.

The noise made by the arrival of Lethwaite's
luggage, the sound of voices and of sobbing, had,
as we have seen, reached—for sound travels
easily in cheaply-built houses—to the room where
Gilbert and his wife were sitting.

Penmore came out upon the landing to ascertain
what new thing was amiss, and hearing
Lethwaite's voice, the memory of what he had
told his friend about the rooms being ready for
a new tenant on this very day, flashed upon him,
and, in one moment, he understood what was
going on below.

He went down stairs at once, and found Julius
Lethwaite in the passage, ignorant still of what
had happened, and entirely confused and
bewildered at the reception which he had met
with.

"Good Heavens, Penmore!" he cried, alarmed,
as well he might be, at his friend's altered
appearance," what can be the matter?"

It was soon told. It was not indeed necessary
to speak of those alarming presentiments with
which Gilbert and his wife had just been occupied.
Time enough for those when it should be
proved that there was ground for such
apprehensions. Time enough to-morrow, when the
jury should have assembled, and pronounced
their verdict. It was enough now to tell the
sad story of Miss Carrington's sudden death,
together with the cause to which that death was
attributed by the medical man.

Lethwaite was sincerely distressed at what he
heard. He foresaw hindrance, and trouble, and
inconvenience—though of course, at present,
nothing more—for his friend; and his offers of
service were so anxiously put, that Penmore
actually gave him some small commission to
execute, in order to set him at rest.

Julius Lethwaite was a man of infinite tact,
and he saw in a moment, that just for the
moment, the kindest thing he could do would be
to go. So in a very few minutes the cab which
had deposited him in Beaumont-street was loaded
again, and he was soon on his way—drums and
all—back to the place from whence he came, and
where he knew that he could still find shelter for
the present.

And there were many demands made now upon
Penmore's attention which served, perhaps
usefully, to distract it from those melancholy
forebodings which had taken such a hold upon his
mind. First came a messenger to announce that
the coroner would hold an inquest on the morrow
at a neighbouring public-house, at two o'clock in
the afternoon. The jury would have to visit the
house in Beaumont-street, and it was requested
that all things might be in readiness for their
reception.

Soon after this message had been received,
Captain Scraper made his appearance. Rumours
of what had happened had reached him, and the
boarding-house where, it will be remembered, the
deceased lady had several friends, was all in
commotion about the affair. Captain Scraper took a
very important tone, and, horrible as it seems to
say so, actually appeared to have a great relish
for what was going on, and to find considerable
consolation in uttering a great many big phrases
about its being a " most mysterious affair," and
as to the " necessity of investigation." And he
even seemed to be disposed to give Gilbert himself
a hint or two as to what had best be his own
course of conduct, and how it would be right for
him to " communicate at once with the late Miss
Carrington's relations," and to "lose no time in
applying to her men of business, whoever they
might be," without once pausing to inquire
whether or no some such steps might not already
have been taken. There was a certain quiet
dignity, however, about the manner in which
Penmore informed the captain that all these things
which he had been kind enough to suggest, had
already been attended to, which had a considerable
effect in subduing the military gentleman's
tone. Gilbert Penmore was the kindest and
gentlest creature breathing, but from the moment
that he had reason to suspect that any one was
taking a liberty with him, he became a very
different person, and very difficult to deal with.

And lastly, the captain being disposed of, came
no less a person than Mr. Jephson, of the firm of
Jephson and Field, Miss Carrington's solicitors.
Mr. Jephson, it will perhaps be remembered,