house it was darker still. The room was still unlighted. The figures of the old man and woman, revealed in the half light, harmonised with the ancient blackness of the furniture. As they stood side by side, as close together as they could get, with, on them both, an air of timidity which the darkness could not hide, I felt that there was a blight upon them, and on the room, and on the house; that it was a place of doom.
"I take it that Mr. Philip has not returned."
They looked at one another; as if each was unwilling to incur the responsibility of a reply. At last the husband took it on himself.
"No, sir; he's not returned, but"
"Well, but what?"
For the old gentleman had paused. He spoke to his wife, in a whisper which was perfectly audible—
"Shall I tell him, Emma?"
"It's not for me to speak. That, Joe, is for you to say."
"This is Mr. Ferguson; he's Mr. Philip's friend."
"If he's Mr. Phllip's friend"
"Come," I said, "I see you've heard from him."
"Yes, sir, we've heard from him. That—that's the trouble."
"What is it you've heard?"
Again the reference to his wife.
