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“She’s told me all about it,” she said, nodding at Mrs. Cox, “and it’s worse than you think, much worse. It isn’t a broker’s man–it’s my poor uncle, Joseph Piper.”

“Your uncle!” repeated Mr. Cox, reeling back; “the broker’s man your uncle?”

Mrs. Berry sniffed. “It was a little joke on our part,” she admitted, sinking into a chair and holding her handkerchief to her face. “Poor uncle; but I dare say he’s happier where he is.”

With its head tilted back, studyin Mr. Cox wiped his brow, and then, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, stared at her in well-simulated amazement.

“See what your joking has led to,” he said, at last. “I have got to be a wanderer over the face of the earth, all on account of your jokes.”

“It was an accident,” murmured Mrs. Berry, “and nobody knows he was here, and I’m sure, poor dear, he hadn’t got much to live for.”

“It’s very kind of you to look at it in that way, Susan, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Cox.

“I was never one to make mischief,” said Mrs. Berry. “It’s no good crying over spilt milk. If uncle’s killed he’s killed, and there’s an end of it But I don’t think it’s quite safe for Mr. Cox to stay here.”

“Just what I say,” said that gentleman, eagerly; “but I’ve got no money.”

“You get away,” said Mrs. Berry, with a warning glance at her friend, and nodding to emphasise her words; “leave us some address to write to, and we must try and scrape twenty or thirty pounds to send you.”

“Thirty?” said Mr. Cox, hardly able to believe his ears.

Mrs. Berry nodded. “You’ll have to make that do to go on with,” she said, pondering. “‘And as soon as yoa get it you had better get as far away as possible before poor uncl’e is discovered. Where are we to send the money?”

Mr. Cox affected to consider.

“The White Horse, Newstead,” he said at length, in a whisper; “better write it down.”

Mrs. Berry obeyed; and this business being completed, Mr. Cox, after trying in vain to obtain a shilling or two cash in hand, bade them a pathetic farewell and went off down the path, for some reason best known to himself, on tiptoe.

For the first two days Messrs. Cox and Piper waited with exemplary patience for the remittance, the demands of the landlord, a man of coarse fibre, being met in the meantime by the latter gentleman from his own slender resources. They were both reasonable men, and knew from experience the difficulty of raising money at short notice; but on the fourth day, their funds being nearly exhausted, an urgent telegram was dispatched to Mrs. Cox.

Mr. Cox was alone when the reply came, and Mr. Piper, returning to the inn-parlour, was amazed and distressed at his friend’s appearance.

Twice he had to address him before he seemed to be aware of his presence, and then Mr. Cox, breathing hard and staring at him strangely, handed him the message.

“Eh?” said Mr. Piper, in amaze, as he read slowly: “‘No–need–send–money–Uncle–Joseph–has–come–back.–Berry,’ What does it mean? Is she mad?”

Mr. Cox shook his head, and taking the paper from him, held it at arm’s length and regarded it at an angle.

“How can you be there when you’re supposed to be dead?” he said, at length.

“How can I be there when I’m here?” rejoined Mr. Piper, no less reasonably.

Both gentlemen lapsed into a wondering silence, devoted to the attempted solution of their own riddles. Finally Mr. Cox, seized with a bright idea that the telegram had got altered in transmission, went off to the post-office and dispatched another, which went straight to the heart of things:

“Don’t–understand–is–Uncle–Joseph–alive?”

A reply was brought to the inn-parlour an hour later on. Mr. Cox opened it, gave one glance at it, and then with a suffocating cry handed it to the other. Mr. Piper took it gingerly, and his eyebrows almost disappeared as he read: