Mr. Gehogan, the gentleman from Ireland who had attempted to possess himself of the scatterings of James Murchison’s practice, had discovered no proper spirit of appreciation in Roxton, and as though to register his displeasure, had departed abruptly, so abruptly that he had left behind him many unpaid bills. The house in Lombard Street had held him and his progeny for some seasons, and the family had left its mark upon the place in more instances than one. Miss Carmagee and her brother, who went over the house for some unexplained reason, concluded that clean paint and paper, and many scrubbings with soap and water, were needed for the effacement of an atmosphere of medi?val sanctity. The charwoman averred—an excellent authority—that the late tenant had kept pigs in a shed at the end of the garden, and had salted and stored the bacon in the bath. The house itself had been left littered with all sorts of rubbish. Dr. Gehogan’s youngsters had turned the back garden into a species of pleasaunce by the sea. There was a big puddle in the middle of the lawn, and oyster-shells, broken bricks, and jam-jars had accumulated to an extraordinary extent.

About the end of April such people of observation as passed down Lombard Street, discovered that the great red-brick house was preparing for new tenants. Mr. Clayton, the decorator, had hung his professional board from the central first-floor window. Sashes were being repainted white, the front door an ?sthetic green. Paper-hangers were at work in the chief rooms, and whitewash brushes splashed and flapped in the kitchen quarters. Questioned by interested fellow-tradesmen as to the name and nature of the incoming tenant, Mr. Clayton blinked and confessed his ignorance. He was working under Mr. Porteus Carmagee’s orders. Mr. Clayton had even heard that the house had changed hands, and that the lawyer had bought it from the late owner, but whether it was let, Mr. Clayton could not tell. Even Mr. Beasely, the local house-agent, was no wiser in the matter. Speculation remained possible, while the more pushing of the local tradesmen were ready at any moment to tout for the new-comers’ “esteemed patronage.”

One afternoon early in May a large furniture van, man?uvring to and fro in Lombard Street and absorbing the whole road, compelled a stylish carriage and pair to come to a sharp halt. The carriage was Dr. Parker Steel’s, and it contained his wife, a complacent study in pink, with a pert little white hat perched on a most elaborate yet seemingly simple coiffure. The footway opposite the Murchison’s old house was littered with straw, and stray odds and ends of furniture, while two men in green baize aprons were struggling up the steps with a Chesterfield sofa. Through one of the open windows of the dining-room, Betty Steel’s sharp eyes caught sight of Miss Carmagee, rigged up in a white apron and unpacking china with the help of one of her maids.

The furniture van had made port, and Parker Steel’s carriage rolled on into St. Antonia’s Square. Mrs. Betty’s eyes had clouded a little under her Paris hat, for unpleasant thoughts are invariably suggested by the faces of people who do not love us. The ego in self-conscious mortals is sensitive as a piece of smoked-glass. The passing of the faintest shadow is registered upon its surface, and its lustre may be dimmed by a chance breath.

This house in Lombard Street had never lost for Betty Steel its suggestion of passive hostility. Its associations always stirred the energies of an unforgotten hate, and though triumphant, she often found herself frowning when she passed the place. Moreover, Miss Carmagee had been the other woman’s friend, and in life there can be no neutrality when rivals fight for survival in the business of success.

Betty Steel had come from the orchards that were white about Roxton Priory, yet the glimpse of the stir and movement in that red-brick house had blown the May-bloom from her thoughts. Did Kate Murchison ever wish herself back in Lombard Street? What had become of her and her children? Betty Steel woke from a moment’s reverie as the carriage drew up before her own home.

The elderly parlor-maid, five feet of starch, to say nothing of the cap, opened the front door to Mrs. Betty. There was an inquisitive lift about the woman’s eyelids, and Betty Steel, an expert in the deciphering of faces, expected news of some sort or another.

“Any one in the drawing-room, Symons?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well?”

“Dr. Steel is in the study. He wished me to say that he would see you the moment you came home.”

Nearly twenty-four hours had p............