n horrors of every kind, and the
more horrible the better."

"But," I asked, "what is it that they have found?"

"Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have been
murdered and cut in pieces. It is dreadful. It made me shudder to read
of it, for I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as for my
father, he was really quite upset."

"Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?"

"Yes. But they have found several more. The police have been most
energetic. They seem to have been making a systematic search, and the
result has been that they have discovered several portions of the body,
scattered about in very widely separated places--Sidcup, Lee, St. Mary
Cray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been found in one of
the ponds called 'the Cuckoo Pits,' close to our old home."

"What! in Essex?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford. Isn't it dreadful to think
of it? They were probably hidden when we were living there. I think it
was that that horrified my father so much. When he read it he was so
upset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newspapers and tossed them
out of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poor Miss Oman had
to rush out and pursue them up the court."

"Do you think he suspects that these remains may be those of your
uncle?"

"I think so, though he has said nothing to that effect, and, of course,
I have not made any such suggestion to him. We always preserve the
fiction between ourselves of believing that Uncle John is still alive."

"But you don't think he is, do you?"

"No, I am afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure that my father doesn't
think so either, but he doesn't like to admit it to me."

"Do you happen to remember what bones have been found?"

"No, I don't. I know that an arm was found in the Cuckoo Pits, and I
think a thigh-bone was dredged up out of a pond near St. Mary Cray. But
Miss Oman will be able to tell you all about it, if you are interested.
She will be delighted to meet a kindred spirit," Miss Bellingham added,
with a smile.

"I don't know that I want to claim spiritual kinship with a ghoul," said
I; "especially such a very sharp-tempered ghoul."

"Oh, don't disparage her, Doctor Berkeley!" Miss Bellingham pleaded.
"She isn't really bad-tempered; only a little prickly on the surface. I
oughtn't to have called her a ghoul; she is just the sweetest, most
affectionate, most unse