To judge by the regretful excitement in the Midlands, Carew might have been a good friend to every body.  The news was at once telegraphed to town, and appeared in the evening papers.  The public interest in his mad freaks had of late years grown somewhat faint—­his extravagances were, perforce, on a less splendid scale—­but his death revived it.  “So that mad Carew has killed himself, after all,” was the observation frequently overheard that evening, as acquaintance met acquaintance on their homeward way from business.  “Well, he’s had his whack of most things,” was the reply of the philosophers; “He has not left much to tempt his heirs to be extravagant, I reckon,” of the cynics; “He was a deuced good fellow at bottom, I believe,” remarked those who were secretly desirous of earning the same eulogium for themselves; “He was altogether wrong at top,” answered the charitable.

Solomon Coe came home to his new abode in such a state of elation that it even made him communicative to his wife.  Mrs. Basil happened to be with her in the drawing-room, but he only acknowledged her presence by a hasty nod.  “Well, what d’ye think, Carew of Crompton, that was your father’s landlord and mine”—­Solomon never said “ours” with reference to property—­“has broken his neck at last!”

Of course the very name of Carew was a sore subject between man and wife, on account of Richard Yorke’s connection with him; but it suited Solomon’s purpose on this occasion to ignore that circumstance.  It would be necessary for some time to come to allude to the Crompton property more or less, and it was just as well to begin at once; it was also less embarrassing to do so in the presence of a third person.

“Yes, Solomon, I knew Mr. Carew was dead,” said Harry, gravely.  The next instant she turned scarlet with the consciousness of her thoughtless indiscretion.

“Oh,” grunted her husband, annoyed at what he deemed her sulky manner, when he himself was so graciously inclined to be conciliatory, and also displeased to find his news anticipated, “you’ve been buying an evening paper, have you?  You must have more money than you know what to do with, it seems to me.”

Harry was thankfully accepting this imputation in silence, when Mrs. Basil’s soft voice was heard.  “No, Sir; it was I who told your good lady.  I had a letter from Crompton by the afternoon’s post.”

“The devil you did!” cried Solomon, turning sharply upon her.  “How came that about?”

“I was housekeeper at Crompton, Sir, in old Mrs. Carew’s time, for some years, and one of the servants wrote to let me know of the accident.”

“Housekeeper, were you?” said Solomon, with interest.  “That must have been a good place, with deuced good pickings, eh?”

“Solomon, Solomon,” remonstrated his wife, in a low voice, “Mrs. Basil is quite a lady.  Don’t you see that you offend her?”