Mr. Calverley dead! The announcement, suddenly blurted out by the footman, so took Pauline by surprise that she literally staggered back two paces, and supported herself against the wall. Dead, on the very day, almost at the very hour when he had promised to meet her, when she had calculated on worming from him the secret which, once in her possession, she had intended to use as the means of extracting information about Tom Durham, and of putting her on to her fugitive husband's track. Dead! What was the meaning of it all? Was the mystery about this unknown man, this not-to-be-mentioned invisible partner, Claxton, of deeper importance than she had thought? Were Mr. Calverley, Claxton, and Tom Durham so intermixed with business transactions of such a nature that sooner than confess his connexion with them the senior partner had committed self-destruction? The thought flashed like lightning through Pauline's brain. But ere she had time to analyse it, the solemn voice of the footman repeated in its croaking tones:  
'Mrs. Calverley wishes to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as possible.'
 
'Yes,' said Pauline in reply, 'I will go to Mrs. Calverley at once.'
 
Past the range of hat-pegs, where the dead man's coats and hats still hung; past the little study, through the open door of which she saw a row of his boots standing in order against the wall, his umbrella and walking-stick in the corner, his folded gloves and clothes-brush laid out upon the table; up the heavily-carpeted stairs; past the closed drawing-room door, and on to Mrs. Calverley's bedroom, at the door of which she knocked. Bidden to come in, Pauline entered, and found the widow seated prim and upright, in a high-backed chair, before the fire.
 
'This is sad news, my dear friend,' commenced Pauline, in a sympathetic voice; 'this is a frightful calamity.'
 
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly, 'it is very hard upon me, but not more than I have always expected. Mr. Calverley chose never to live in his own home, and he has finished by dying out of it.'
 
'I have heard no particulars,' said Pauline. 'Where did the sad event take place?'
 
'Mr. Calverley was found dead in a railway carriage, as he was returning from those ironworks,' said the widow, with vicious emphasis on the last word. 'He entered into that speculation against my will, and he has now reaped the reward of his own obstinacy.'
 
Pauline looked at her curiously. The dread event which had occurred had not softened Mrs. Calverley in the slightest degree.
 
'This is very, very sad,' said Pauline, after a pause. 'If I were to consult my own feelings, I should withdraw, and leave you to your overwhelming grief, which no attention can solace, and which must run its course; and yet I cannot bear to think of you alone and unaided. What would you wish me to do?'
 
'You had much better stay,' said Mrs. Calverley, shortly. 'I feel myself quite unequal to anything, and there is a great deal to be done.'
 
The tone in which these words were uttered was cold, peremptory, and unpleasant; but Pauline took no notice of it. She had a great deal to think over, and would take the first opportunity of arranging her plans. As it was, she busied herself in seeing to Mrs. Calverley's comfort. She had long since relieved her of the superintendence of domestic affairs, and now she made suggestions for an interview with the milliner, for the ordering of the servants' mourning, and for the general conduct of the household, in all of which the widow coldly acquiesced.
 
Then, so soon as she could, Pauline sought the privacy of her room, and gave herself up to meditation.
 
'Was there ever anything so unfortunate,' she thought to herself, as, having changed her neat French walking-boots for slippers, in order not to be heard by Mrs. Calverley in the room beneath, she commenced pacing up and down the floor,--'was there ever anything so unfortunate! By this man's death my whole position is changed! Not that I think there is any doubt of stability of my interest in this house. Though it was he that first suggested that I should come here, I have so strengthened myself since then, I stand so well with the wretched creature down-stairs, the woman with a heart like a dried pea, that had he lived and tried to bring his influence to bear against me, it would have been unavailing. I had better stay,' she thought. 'Housekeeper, dame de compagnie, drudge even, if she could make me so, and all for my board and lodging. Well, it is worth my while to remain for that, even now, though by this man's death my chief purpose in coming here is defeated. In the dead man I have lost, not merely my first friend and patron, but one whom I had intended should be my victim, and who alone could serve me in the matter dearest to my heart. To all left here now that rascally husband of mine was unknown. Even of the name of Tom Durham they have only heard since the account of his supposed death appeared in the newspapers. The clue is lost just when I had my hand upon it! And yet I may as well remain in this place, at all events until I see how matters progress. There is nowhere I could go to on the chance of bearing any news,--unless, indeed, I could find the agent who signed that letter which Monsieur mon mari gave me the day we were at Southampton. He or she, whichever it may be, would know something doubtless, but whether they would tell it is another matter. For the present, then, here I stay. The house will not be so dull as it was before, for these eccentric English people, ordinarily so triste and reserved, seem to excite themselves with deaths and funerals; and now this priest, this Monsieur Gurwood, who was on the point of going away, will have to remain to attend to the affairs, and to be a comfort to his sorrowing mother. I am much mistaken if there is not something to be made out of Monsieur Gurwood. He is sly and secretive, and will hide all he knows; but my power of will is stronger than his; and if, under these altered circumstances, he learns anything which may interest me, I shall be able to get it from him.'
 
Mrs. Calverley remained in her room that evening, occupying herself in writing up her diary, which she had scrupulously kept for many years, and in comparing her record of the feelings which she imagined she ought to have experienced, and which was very different from what she really did experience, with the entry in a previous diary of a dozen years ago, on the day of George Gurwood's death. She had had a second interview with Madame Du Tertre, and had talked over the arrangements of the milliner, and had discussed the advisability of a short run to Brighton, or some other lively place--it must be a lively place at such a wintry season--for change of air and scene. And she had made a very fair meal, which had been sent up to her on a tray from the dinner-table below, at which Martin Gurwood and Pauline were seated, solemnly facing each other.
 
The presence of the butler at this repast, always annoying to a man of Martin Gurwood's simple habits, was on this occasion perfectly unendurable; and, after requesting his companion's assent, he instructed the domestic to retire, telling him they would wait upon themselves.
 
'I thought you would not mind it, Madame Du Tertre,' he said, with a grave bow, after the man had withdraw. 'At a time when one is irritable, and one's nerves are disturbed, it is beyond measure annoying to me to have a person looking on, watching your every mouthful, and doing nothing else.'
 
'I am most thankful that you sent the servant away, Monsieur Gurwood,' said Pauline, 'more especially as I could not speak to you in his presence, and I am anxious to learn full particulars of what has occurred.'
 
Why did Martin Garwood's pale face become suffused with a burning red? What was there, Pauline thought, in her observation to make him evince such emotion?
 
'I scarcely know that I am in a position to give you any information, as all I know myself is learned at secondhand.'
 
'Anything will be information to me,' said Pauline, 'as all Mrs. Calverley told me was the bare fact. You have never been to--what is the place called--Swartmoor, I suppose?'
 
'No, never,' said Martin Gurwood, with increased perturbation, duly marked by Pauline. 'Why do you ask?'
 
'I merely wanted to know whether it was an unhealthy place, as this poor man seems to have caught his death there.'
 
'Mr. Calverley died from heart-disease, brought on by mental worry and excitement.'
 
'Ah,' said Pauline; 'poor man!' And she thought to herself, 'that mental worry and excitement were caused by his knowledge that he had to encounter me, and to tell me the true story--for he was too dull to devise any fiction which I should not have been able to detect--of his dealings with this Claxton.'
 
After a pause she said: 'These worries sprung from his intense interest in his business, I suppose, Monsieur Gurwood?'
 
'I--I should imagine so,' said Martin, flushing again. 'Mr. Calverley was devoted to business.'
 
'Yes,' said Pauline, looking straight at him. 'I often wondered he did not give himself more relaxation; did not confide the conduct of his affairs more to his subordinates, or at least to his partner.'
 
The shot told. All the colour left Martin Gurwood's face, and he looked horridly embarrassed as he said, 'Partner, Madame Du Tertre? Mr. Calverley had no partner.'
 
'Indeed,' said Pauline calmly, but keeping her eyes fixed on his face; 'I thought I understood that there was a gentleman whose name was not in the firm, but who was what you call a sleeping partner, Mr.--Mr. Claxton.'
 
'There is no such name in the house,' said Martin Gurwood, striving to master his emotion. 'From whom did you hear this, madame--not from my mother?'
 
'O, no,' said Pauline calmly; 'I think it vas from Mr. Calverley himself.'
 
'You must surely be mistaken, Madame Du Tertre.'
 
'It is more than probable, monsieur,' said Pauline. 'In my ignorance of the language I may have mistaken the terms which Mr. Calverley used, and given them my own misinterpretation. Ah, and so there is no one of the name of Claxton; or if there be, he is not a partner? So, as far as being able to relieve Mr. Calverley was concerned, it came to the same thing. Of course with a man so precise, all the business arrangements, what you call the will and those things, were properly made?'
 
'O, yes; all in strict order,' said Martin, grateful for the change of subject. 'Mr. Jeffreys went from hence to the lawyer's, and has since been back with a copy of the will. With the exception of a few legacies, all the property is left to Mrs. Calverley, and she and I are appointed joint executors.'
 
'That is as it should be,' said Pauline, 'and what might have been expected from a man like Mr. Calverley. Just, upright, and honourable, was he not?'
 
'I always believed him to be so, madame,' said Martin, with an effort.
 
'And his death was as creditable as his life,' pursued Pauline, with her eyes still fixed upon her companion. 'He was killed in the discharge of his business, and no soldier dying on the battle-field could have a more honourable death. You agree with me, Monsieur Gurwood?'
 
'I do not give much heed to the kind of death which falls to the lot of men, but rather to the frame of mind in which they die.'
 
'And even there, monsieur, you must allow that Mr. Calverley was fortunate. Respected by his friends, and beloved by his wife, successful in his business, and happy in his home--'
 
'Yes,' interrupted Martin Gurwood, 'but it is not for us to pronounce our judgment in these matters, Madame Du Tertre, and you will excuse me if I suggest that we change the subject.'
 
When dinner was finished Pauline went up-stairs again to Mrs. Calverley's room, and had another long chat with the widow before she retired to rest. Mrs. Calverley h............