d, “Is er, ser of his narrow marble house?”

    Some ans be o tions. I could find it no turned. t  my breakfast into ted o s t doo ask  acle of desolation I  left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. t able-looking, middle-aged man.

    “You knoo say at last.

    “Yes, ma’am; I lived there once.”

    “Did you?” Not in my time, I t: you are a stranger to me.

    “I e Mr. Rocer’s butler,” he added.

    te! I seem to rying to evade.

    “te!” gasped. “Is he dead?”

    “I mean t gentleman, Mr. Eds flo Mr. Ed alive:  gentleman.” Gladdening  seemed I could  o come— be—ive tranquillity. Since  in t, to learn t  tipodes.

    “Is Mr. Rocer living at t t yet desirous of deferring t question as to where he really was.

    “No, ma’am—oranger in ts, or you umn,—te a ruin: it  do about -time. A dreadful calamity! sucity of valuable property destroyed: ure could be saved. t at dead of nige, t errible spectacle: I nessed it myself.”

    “At dead of nigtered. Yes, t ality at t knoed?” I demanded.

    “t ained beyond a doubt. You are not perinued, edging tle nearer table, and speaking lo tic, kept in the house?”

    “I .”

    “S in very close confinement, ma’am: people even for some years  absolutely certain of ence. No one sa s  to conjecture. t ress. But a queer thing.”

    I feared noo ory. I endeavoured to recall o t.

    “And this lady?”

    “turned out to be Mr. Rocer’s  about in trangest  t Mr. Rocer fell in—”

    “But ted.