drums with his fingers on the table, or taps his
foot impatiently on the floor. No notice of these
vagaries is taken by either of the ladies, it being
generally understood at Poynings that the Grand
Lama will always find vent in speech when the
proper time arrives. Meanwhile, Mrs. Carruthers
moodily broods over the breakfast equipage, and
Clare continues her handiwork with the flowers.

The Grand Lama becomes more and more
irate, glares through his gold double eye-glasses
at the newspaper, wherein he is reading
atrociously "levelling" views promulgated by a
correspondent, gives utterance to smothered sounds
indicative of indignation and contempt, and is
just about to burst forth in a torrent of rage,
when the door opens, and a footman, entering,
hands a card on a salver to his master. As when,
in full pursuit of the flying matador, the bull in
the arena wheels round and engages the lithe
picador who has just planted a flag-bearing dart
in his quivering carcase, so Mr. Carruthers turns
upon the servant who had interposed between
him and the intended objects of his attack.

"What's this?" said he, in a sharp voice.

"Card, sir," said the footman, utterly
unmoved, and with the complacent expression of
an ancient gurgoyle on a Saxon church.

"Do you think I'm blind?" said his master.
"I see it's a card. Where did it come from?"

"Gentleman in the library, sir. Said you was
at breakfast; told me no 'urry, and giv' me his
card."

Mr. Carruthers looks up suspiciously at
Thomas, footman, but Thomas, footman, is still
gurgoylesque. Then Mr. Carruthers replaces
his eye-glasses, and, looking at the card, reads
thereon, in old English characters, "Mr.
Dalrymple," and in pencil the words " Home Office."
"I will be with the gentleman in a moment."
Only stopping at the looking-glass to run his
fingers through his hair and to settle the tie of his
checked cravat, Mr. Carruthers creaks out of the
room.

Mr. Dalrymple, of the Home Office, has
established himself in a comfortable chair, from
which he rises on Mr. Carruthers's entrance. He
is a tall, bald-headed man, and, to Mr. Carruthers's
horror, wears a full-flowing brown beard. The
Grand Lama, whose ideas on this point are out
of date, knows that beards are now generally
worn by members of the aristocracy as well as
foreigners and billiard-sharpers, but cannot
conceive that any government has been so
preposterously lax as to permit its officials to
indulge in such nonsense. Consequently he
refers to the card again, and, his first
impressions being verified, is dumb with astonishment.
Nevertheless, he controls his feelings
sufficiently to bow and to point to a chair.

"I am an early visitor, Mr. Carruthers," says
Mr. Dalrymple, "but the fact is, my business is
pressing. I came down to Amherst by the
mail-train last night, but I would not disturb you at
so late an hour, and, moreover, I could have
done no good by seeing you then; so I slept at
the inn. My visit to you is on business, as I
presume you understand?"

Mr. Dalrymple says this pointedly, as the
Grand Lama's face is rapidly assuming an
open mouth and sunken jaw expression of idiocy,
He recovers himself by an effort, and, glancing
at the card, mutters "Home Office."

"Precisely," says Mr. Dalrymple. "I am
principal clerk in the Home Office, and I come
to you in your capacity as justice of the peace.
Lord Wolstenholme, our Secretary, noticed that
you generally acted as chairman of the bench of
magistrates, and therefore decided that you were
the proper person to be communicated with."

Mr. Carruthers's attention, which has been
wandering a little — his eyes are still attracted by
his visitor's beard, and he is wondering how long
it has been growing, and why it should be, as it
is, of two distinct shades of brown — is recalled
by these words, and he mutters that he is obliged
to his lordship for his opinion.

"Now, my dear Mr. Carruthers," says Mr.
Dalrymple, bending forward in his chair, dropping
his voice to a whisper, and looking slyly
from under his bushy eyebrows, "will you allow
me to ask you a question? Can you keep a
secret?"

Mr. Carruthers is taken aback. From his
magisterial and county-gentleman position he
looks upon secrets as things exclusively
appertaining to the vulgar, as connected with
conspiracies, plots, swindles, and other indictable
offences. Considering, however, that the matter
is brought under his notice in connexion with
the Home Office, he thinks he may venture to
answer in the affirmative, and does accordingly.

"Ex-actly," says Mr. Dalrymple. "I knew
your answer before I put the question; but in
these little matters it is absolutely necessary to
have perfect accuracy. Now then to the point—-
we are quite out of earshot. Thank you! No
chance of any one listening at the doors?"

Mr. Carruthers says "No," with an expression
of face which says he should very much
like to catch any one there.

"Pre-cisely! Now, my dear Mr. Carruthers,
I will at once put you in possession of Lord
Wolstenholme's views. The fact is, that a
murder has been committed, under rather peculiar
circumstances, and his lordship wants your
assistance in investigating the matter."

Mr. Carruthers is all attention in an instant.
Every trace of pre-occupation has vanished.
His visitor's beard has no kind of attraction for
him now, though it is wagging close before his
eyes. A murder! The worst case he had ever
investigated was a doubtful manslaughter
arising out of a poaching affray, and for his
remarks on that he had been highly complimented
in the local press; but here is murder — and his
aid is enlisted by the Home Office!

"The facts of the case," continues Mr.
Dalrymple, "are shortly these. A body of a man is
seen floating off Paul's Wharf, and is hooked up
by one of the men attached to the steam-boat