lice
with some disturbance of manner came out and announced that a gentleman
wished to see the master. Darnell went into the drawing-room, where
Alice had lit one gas so that it flared and burnt with a rushing sound,
and in this distorting light there waited a stout, elderly gentleman,
whose countenance was altogether unknown to him. He stared blankly, and
hesitated, about to speak, but the visitor began.

'You don't know who I am, but I expect you'll know my name. It's Nixon.'

He did not wait to be interrupted. He sat down and plunged into
narrative, and after the first few words, Darnell, whose mind was not
altogether unprepared, listened without much astonishment.

'And the long and the short of it is,' Mr. Nixon said at last, 'she's
gone stark, staring mad, and we had to put her away to-day--poor thing.'

His voice broke a little, and he wiped his eyes hastily, for though
stout and successful he was not unfeeling, and he was fond of his wife.
He had spoken quickly, and had gone lightly over many details which
might have interested specialists in certain kinds of mania, and
Darnell was sorry for his evident distress.

'I came here,' he went on after a brief pause, 'because I found out she
had been to see you last Sunday, and I knew the sort of story she must
have told.'

Darnell showed him the prophetic leaflet which Mrs. Nixon had dropped in
the garden. 'Did you know about this?' he said.

'Oh, _him_,' said the old man, with some approach to cheerfulness; 'oh
yes, I thrashed _him_ black and blue the day before yesterday.'

'Isn't he mad? Who is the man?'

'He's not mad, he's bad. He's a little Welsh skunk named Richards. He's
been running some sort of chapel over at New Barnet for the last few
years, and my poor wife--she never could find the parish church good
enough for her--had been going to his damned schism shop for the last
twelve-month. It was all that finished her off. Yes; I thrashed _him_
the day before yesterday, and I'm not afraid of a summons either. I know
him, and he knows I know him.'

Old Nixon whispered something in Darnell's ear, and chuckled faintly as
he repeated for the third time his formula--

'I thrashed _him_ black and blue the day before yesterday.'

Darnell could only murmur condolences and express his hope that Mrs.
Nixon might recover.

The old man shook his head.

'I'm afraid there's no hope of that,' he said. 'I've had the best
advice, but they couldn't do anything,