t the theatre, where, as
usual, she had excited herself beyond measure. Mrs. Frothingham had seen
an old report of the inquest that was held, the cause of death being
given as cerebral haemorrhage. In these details Harvey Rolfe found new
matter for reflection.

Their conversation at breakfast this morning was interrupted by the
arrival of letters; two of them particularly welcome, for they bore a
colonial postmark. Hugh Carnaby wrote to his friend from an
out-of-the-way place in Tasmania; Sibyl wrote independently to Alma
from Hobart.

'Just as I expected,' said Harvey, when he had glanced over a few
lines. 'He talks of coming home:--"There seems no help for it. Sibyl is
much better in health since we left Queens land, but I see she would
never settle out here. She got to detest the people at Brisbane, and
doesn't like those at Hobart much better. I have left her there whilst
I'm doing a little roaming with a very decent fellow I have come
across, Mackintosh by name. He has been everywhere and done
everything--not long ago was in the service of the Indo-European
Telegraph Company at Tehran, and afterwards lived (this will interest
you) at Badgered, where he got a _date-boil_, which marks his face and
testifies to his veracity. He has been trying to start a timber
business here; says some of the hard woods would be just the thing for
street paving. But now his father's death is taking him back home, and
I shouldn't wonder if we travel together. One of his ideas is a bicycle
factory; he seems to know all about it, and says it'll be the most
money-making business in England for years to come. What do you think?
Does this offer a chance for _me_?"'

Harvey interrupted himself with a laugh. Smelting of abandoned gold
ores, by the method of the ingenious Dando, had absorbed some of Hugh's
capital, with very little result, and his other schemes for
money-making were numerous.

'"The fact is, I must get money somehow. Living has been expensive ever
since we left England, and it's madness to go on till one's resources
have practically run out. And Sibyl _must_ get home again; she's
wasting her life among these people. How does she write to your wife? I
rather wish I could spy at the letters. (Of course, I don't seriously
mean that.) She bears it very well, and, if possible, I have a higher
opinion of her than ever."'

Again Harvey laughed.

'Good old chap! What a pity he can't be cracking crowns somewhere!'

'Oh! I'm s