newspaper in his hand, and he held it up as he spoke to
Neeld across Mina.

"Your book's promised for the 15th, I see, Neeld."

"Yes, it's to be out then."

Mina was delighted at being presented with a topic. Sometimes it is the
most precious of gifts.

"Oh, Mr Neeld, have you written a book? How interesting! What is it? A
novel?"

"My dear Madame Zabriska!" murmured Neeld, feeling as if he were being
made fun of. "And it's not really my book. I've only edited it."

"But that's just as good," Mina insisted amiably. "Do tell me what it
is."

"Here you are, Mina. There's the full title and description for you.
There's nothing else in the paper." Iver handed it to her with a stifled
yawn. She read and turned to Neeld with a quick jerk of her head.

"Journal and Correspondence of Josiah Cholderton!" she repeated. "Oh,
but--oh, but--well, that is curious! Why, we used to know Mr
Cholderton!"

"You knew Mr Cholderton?" said Mr Neeld in mild surprise. Then, with a
recollection, he added, "Oh, at Heidelberg, I dare say? But you must
have been a child?"

"Yes, I was. Does he talk about Heidelberg?"

"He mentions it once or twice." In spite of himself Neeld began to feel
that he was within measurable distance of getting on to difficult
ground.

"What fun if he mentioned me! Oh, but of course he wouldn't say anything
about a child of five!"

The slightest start ran through Neeld's figure; it passed unnoticed. He
looked sharply at Mina Zabriska. She went on, in all innocence this
time; she had no reason to think that Cholderton had been in possession
of any secrets, and if he had, it would not have occurred to her that he
would record them.

"He knew my mother quite well; he used to come and see us. Does he
mention her--Madame de Kries?"

There was a perceptible pause; then Neeld answered primly:

"I'm afraid you won't find your mother's name mentioned in Mr.
Cholderton's Journal, Madame Zabriska."

"How horrid!" remarked Mina, greatly disappointed; she regarded Mr Neeld
with a new interest all the same.

They were both struck with this strange coincidence--as it seemed to
them; though in fact that they should meet at Blentmouth was not
properly a coincidence at all. There was nothing surprising about it;
the same cause and similar impulses had brought them both there. The
woman who lay dying at Blent and the young man who sat making love under
the tree yonder--these and no more far-fetched causes--had brou