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Those to the best of my belief, were his exact words. We had walked up York Street to Queen, and then had gone down Queen to Yonge, when we turned up the east side on our way homeward. At the moment when the last words were uttered we had got a few yards north of Crookshank Street, immediately in front of a chemist’s shop which was, I think, the third house from the corner. The window of this shop was well lighted, and its brightness was reflected on the sidewalk in front. Just then, two gentlemen walking rapidly in the opposite direction to that we were taking brushed by us; but I was too deeply absorbed in my uncle’s communication to pay much attention to passers-by. Scarcely had they passed, however, ere one of them stopped and exclaimed:

“Surely that is Willie Furlong!”

I turned, and recognised Johnny Gray, one of my oldest friends. I relinquished my uncle’s arm for a moment, and shook hands with Gray, who said:

“I am surprised to see you. I heard only a few days ago, that you were not to be here till next spring.”

“I am here,” I remarked, “somewhat in advance of my own expectations.” I then hurriedly enquired after several of our common friends, to which enquiries he briefly replied.

“All well,” he said; “but you are in a hurry, and so am I. Don’t let me detain you. Be sure and look in on me to-morrow. You will find me at the old place, in the Romain Buildings.”

We again shook hands, and he passed on down the street with the gentleman who accompanied him. I then turned to re-possess myself of my uncle’s arm. The old gentleman had evidently walked on, for he was not in sight. I hurried along, making sure of overtaking him before reaching Gould Street, for my interview with Gray had occupied barely a minute. In another minute I was at the corner of Gould Street. No signs of Uncle Richard. I quickened my pace to a run, which soon brought me to Gerrard Street. Still no signs of my uncle. I had certainly not passed him on my way, and he could not have got farther on his homeward route than here. He must have called in at one of the stores; a strange thing for him to do under the circumstances. I retraced my steps all the way to the front of the chemist’s shop, peering into every window and doorway as I passed along. No one in the least resembling him was to be seen.

I stood still for a moment, and reflected. Even if he had run at full speed–a thing most unseemly for him to do–he could not have reached the corner of Gerrard Street before I had done so. And what should he run for? He certainly did not wish to avoid me, for he had more to tell me before reaching home. Perhaps he had turned down Gould Street. At any rate, there was no use waiting for him. I might as well go home at once. And I did.

Upon reaching the old familiar spot, I opened the gate passed on up the steps to the front door, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a domestic who had not formed part of the establishment in my time, and who did not know me; but Alice happened to be passing through the hall, and heard my voice as I inquired for Uncle Richard. Another moment and she was in my arms. With a strange foreboding at my heart I noticed that she was in deep mourning. We passed into the dining-room, where the table was laid for dinner.

“Has Uncle Richard come in?” I asked, as soon as we were alone. “Why did he run away from me?”

“Who?” exclaimed Alice, with a start; “what do you mean, Willie? Is it possible you have not heard?”