Doctor Haughton stared hard at his old friend, who had just made such an astounding announcement--stared hard, but said nothing. Naturally a reticent man, in his capacity of physician he had had a great many odd things confided to him in his life, and had consequently not merely learned the value of silence, but had almost lost the faculty of astonishment.  
After a minute's pause he turned to the little crowd, and said in a quiet, business-like way, 'Just four of you lift this poor gentleman's body, two at the head and two at the feet, and carry it over to the tavern I see on the other side of the road.--Gibson,' to the coachman, 'you go with them and pay them for their trouble. See it properly placed on a bed or sofa somewhere, and have the door locked, and tell the landlord he will be properly paid, and that a hearse will come out and fetch it away this evening.'
 
When Gibson returned and reported that all these directions had
been properly obeyed, he mounted his box again, and the gentlemen,
re-entering the carriage, drove off swiftly towards London, leaving the little crowd in the road gazing after them.
 
The gentlemen inside the brougham composed themselves comfortably, each in his corner, looking out of the window, and waiting for the other to speak. Each was most anxious to hear all that the other
might have to tell him, but both knew the professional etiquette of caution so well that neither liked to be the first to commence the conversation. At length Mr. Broadbent, who was a year or two younger, and considerably more impulsive than his friend, broke the silence by saying, in a casual manner, and as though the subject had but little interest for him, 'Odd that I should have been talking to you about that man this morning, and that we should have come upon him just now, wasn't it?'
 
'Very odd; very odd indeed,' said Doctor Haughton; 'quite a coincidence! Odd thing, too, his going under two names. Mr. Calverley certainly could not be called an eccentric man.'
 
'Nor could Mr. Claxton, so far as I have seen of him at least,' said Mr. Broadbent; 'a thoroughly steady-going man of business, I should say.'
 
'Ah!' said Doctor Haughton. And then there was a pause, broken by the doctor's saying, as he looked straight out of the window before him, 'No need of asking what made the man adopt this mystery and this alias, eh? A woman, of course?'
 
'Well, there certainly is a Mrs. Claxton,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and a very pretty woman too.'
 
'Poor creature, poor creature!' said Doctor Haughton; 'such things as these always fall hardest upon them.'
 
'Yes, it's a bad thing for her losing her husband,' said Mr. Broadbent.
 
'Her husband!' echoed Doctor Haughton. 'I--I--I suppose every one at Hendon thought she was Calverley's wife?'
 
'Thought she was!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'do you mean to say she wasn't?'
 
'Why, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, pushing his hat on the back of his head and staring at his companion, 'there's a Mrs. Calverley at home in Great Walpole-street, whither we are now going, to whom Calverley has been married for the last ten or fifteen years.'
 
'Good Heaven!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'then that poor girl at Rose Cottage is--ah, poor child, poor child!' And he sighed and shook his head very sorrowfully. He knew at that moment that so soon as the story got wind he would have to brave his wife's anger, and the virtuous indignation of all his neighbours, who would be furious at having him in their spotless domiciles after his attendance on such a 'creature;' but his first emotions were pity for the girl, however erring she might be.
 
'Very distressing indeed,' said Doctor Haughton, blowing his nose loudly. 'It is a most extraordinary thing that men who are liable to a cardiac affection are not more careful in such matters. And the girl is pretty too, you say?'
 
'Very pretty, young, and interesting,' said Mr. Broadbent kindly.
 
'Ah!' commented Dr. Haughton; 'doesn't resemble Mrs. Calverley much, as you will say when you see her. No doubt poor Calverley--however, that's neither here nor there. Do you know this is a remarkably unpleasant business, Broadbent?'
 
'It is indeed,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and for both the families.'
 
'Yes, and for us, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, 'for us, who have to break the news to one of them within the next half hour. Where on earth can we say we found the man? I suppose he was living out at this box of his, wasn't he?'
 
'Yes, he has been there for the last few days. He was in the habit of passing a week or ten days there, and then going off, as Mrs. Claxton told me, on business journeys connected with the firm of which he was a partner.'
 
'That exactly tallies with Calverley's own life. He was absent from his home about every fortnight to look after, as he said, some ironworks in the North. It is very little wonder that a man leading a double life of such enormous excitement should bring upon himself a cardiac attack. Such a steady sobersides as he looked too! Gad, Broadbent, I shouldn't be surprised if you were to turn out a Don Juan next!
 
'No fear of that,' said Mr. Broadbent, with a half smile; 'but really this is a most unpleasant position for us. Where can we say we found the poor fellow? We cannot possibly tell Mrs. Calverley we picked him up on the roadside, as he was probably supposed by her to be travelling in the North. And yet she must know the truth some day.'
 
'Yes, but not yet,' said Doctor Haughton, 'nor need we take upon ourselves the trouble and anxiety of telling her. We can say to Mrs. Calverley that this poor man was found dead in a railway carriage, which she would be ready to believe, imagining him to be on his return from the ironworks. Mr. Gurwood, a clergyman, her son by her former husband, who happens to be stopping in the house, how the matter really stands, and get him to explain it to her on some future occasion.'
 
Mr. Broadbent agreed to this mechanically; indeed he was but little concerned about Mrs. Calverley, and was wondering what would become of the poor little woman at Rose Cottage when she should hear the fearful news.
 
'And I'll tell you what, my dear Broadbent,' continued Doctor Haughton, after a pause, 'if you don't mind my giving you a little advice. I should let this young woman up at Hendon find out this news by herself--I mean to say, I shouldn't tell her. No one knows that you know anything about it; and it is as well for a professional man to mix himself up in such matters under such circumstances as little as possible.'
 
Mr. Broadbent again signified his assent. He was a kindly-hearted man, but he knew that from a worldly point of view his companion's advice was sound, and he determined to act upon it, remembering Mrs. Broadbent's tongue.
 
So the two gentlemen journeyed on until the carriage pulled up in front of the dull, grim, respectable house in Great Walpole-street, and there, feeling very nervous despite their professional training, they alighted.
 
There was no need to give their names, for the butler recognised Doctor Haughton at once, and ushered the gentlemen into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Calverley was seated alone, with the eternal Berlin-wool frame in front of her. She looked up at the butler's announcement, rose from her seat, and stood with her hands crossed primly before her, waiting to receive her visitors.
 
Doctor Haughton advanced, and taking one of her cold flat hands shook it in a purely professional manner, and then let it drop. Nor could Mrs. Calverley, however acute she might have been, have gleaned any intelligence from the doctor's look, which was also purely professional, and met her steely blue eyes as though it were inspecting her tongue. But Mrs. Calverley was not acute, and she merely said, 'How do you do, Doctor Haughton?' in her thin acid voice, and stared blankly at Mr. Broadbent, as though wondering how he came there.
 
'This is Mr. Broadbent, an old friend of mine, and a medical man of great experience, whose company I was fortunate enough to have on this very melancholy occasion.'
 
Doctor Haughton laid great stress upon the last words; but Mrs. Calverley took them very calmly, merely saying 'Yes;' and rubbing the palms of her silk mittens softly together.
 
'I am afraid I have not succeeded in making you understand, Mrs. Calverley, that a great misfortune has befallen you.'
 
'The Swartmoor Ironworks,' said Mrs. Calverley, suddenly brightening up. 'I always said--but how could you know about them?'
 
'The calamity to which I am alluding is, I regret to say, much more serious than any mere business loss,' replied Doctor Houghton gravely. 'Mr. Calverley has been out of town for some little time, I believe?'
 
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley, becoming rigid with rage; 'he is away carrying out some of those ridiculous schemes in which he wastes our money and--'
 
'Do not speak harshly, my dear madam,' said the doctor, laying his hand upon her arm. 'I am sure you will regret it. Mr. Calverley is very ill, dangerously ill.'
 
Mrs. Calverley looked up sharply into his face. 'Stop one minute, Doctor Houghton, if you please; I should wish my son, the Reverend Martin Gurwood, to be present at any communication you have to make to me respecting Mr. Calverley. He is somewhere in the house, I know. I will send for him.' And she rang the bell.
 
'By all means,' said Doctor Haughton, looking helplessly at Mr. Broadbent, and feeling how very much more difficult it would be to tell his white lie, prompted though it was by merciful consideration, in the presence of a clergyman.
 
In a few minutes Martin Gurwood entered the room. He knew Doctor Houghton, and shook hands with him; bowing to Mr. Broadbent, to whom he was introduced.
 
'Doctor Houghton was beginning to make some communication to me about Mr. Calverley,' said Mrs. Calverley, and I thought it better, Martin, that you should be present.'
 
Martin Gurwood bowed, and looked inquiringly at the doctor.
 
'It is, I regret to say, a very painful communication,' said Doctor Haughton, in answer to this mute appeal. Mr. Calverley was found this afternoon in a very critical state in a--in a railway carriage on
the--on the Great Northern line,' said the doctor, with some little hesitation, feeling himself grow hot all over.
 
Mr. Broadbent, feeling the actual responsibility thus lifted from his shoulders, preserved a perfectly unruffled demeanour, and nodded his head in solemn corroboration.
 
'May I ask how you came to hear of this, Doctor Haughton?' said Martin.
 
'It so happened,' said the doctor, that I had been called in consultation to a case at--a short distance from town'--it would never do to name the exact place while this woman is present, he thought to himself--'and we were returning in the train when the discovery was made, and we at once offered our services, little thinking that the unfortunate sufferer would prove to be an acquaintance of mine.'
 
'Some one must go to him at once,' said Martin, looking hard at his mother.
 
'It is a great pity that Madame Du Tertre is not in the way just now when she is wanted,' said Mrs. Calverley, quietly;. 'this seems exactly one of the occasions--'
 
'There is no necessity for anyone to go,' interrupted Doctor Haughton; 'all that it is possible to do has been done.'
 
'Do you consider Mr. Calverley to be in danger?' asked Martin, anxiously.
 
'In extreme danger,' replied the doctor; and then catching Mr. Gurwood's eye, he endeavoured by the action of his mouth to frame the word dead.' But Mrs. Calverley's steely eyes were upon him at the same moment, and she guessed his meaning.
 
'You are endeavouring to deceive me, Doctor Haughton,' said she with her stoniest manner; 'Mr. Calverley is dead.'
 
'My dear mother,' said Martin, leaving his chair, and putting his arms round her.
 
'I can bear it, Martin,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly; 'this is not the first time I have known suffering. My life has been one long martyrdom.'
 
'Is this true?' asked Martin, turning to the doctor.
 
'I regret to say it is,' said Doctor Haughton. 'Out of consideration for Mrs. Calverley's feelings, I endeavoured to break the news as gently as possible, but it is better that she should know the truth as she does now.'

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