would like to see you, sir."

"Very good, Benson," replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to the
butler. "I will see her in the dining room, please."

Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room which so
often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner in
accordance with his directions. The chair which he remembered to have
occupied was in place and that in which Sir Charles had died was set at
the head of the table.

Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowly
about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to
the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a pathetic
little figure in black.

"Ah, Mrs. Howett," said Harley; kindly, "please try to forgive me for
this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a good
reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally anxious to have
everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns, will you be good enough
to tell me if the table is at present set exactly as on the night that
Sir Charles and I came in to dinner?"

"No, Mr. Harley," was the answer, "that was what I was anxious to
explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful
night."

"Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?"

"I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so." The methodical
old lady illustrated her words. "I also had the dessert spoons changed.
You remember, Benson?"

Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver spoons
which he substituted for those already set upon the table.

"Anything else, Mrs. Howett?"

"The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your
arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the parlourmaid--a most
incompetent, impudent girl--altering the position of the serviettes. At
least, such was my impression."

"Of the serviettes?" murmured Harley.

"She denied it," continued the housekeeper, speaking with great
animation; "but she could give no explanation. It was the last straw.
She took too many liberties altogether."

As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but Harley
was no longer listening.

"This is not the same table linen?" he asked, suddenly.

"Why, no, sir," replied Benson. "Last week's linen will be at the
laundry."

"It has not gone yet," interrupted Mrs. Howett. "I was making up the
list when you brought me Mr. Harley's message."

Paul Harley turne