“That is Solomon,” cried she.

“Impossible,” said Mrs. Basil.  “He told me himself that he should stop for the last day’s sale, and to-day is but the fifth.”

“Hush! it is.”

Yes, it was certainly Solomon’s voice in the passage; and apparently, by the answering tone, he had a male companion with him.

Harry seized the letter, with its inclosures, and thrust them into her bosom, which, full of grief for his victim, seemed to spurn her husband’s approach.  Then she heard him calling her impatiently, as was his wont, from the foot of the stairs.

“Harry, come down; I have brought a gentleman home with me.  Let’s have something to eat at once, will you?”

“Answer him—­answer him!” gasped Harry.  She could not speak; her tongue seemed paralyzed.

Mrs. Basil rose at once, walked with steady step to the door, and opened it.  “Your wife is here, Mr. Coe.  I am glad you are come home, for she is far from well, and I was getting quite nervous about her.”

“She must be ill,” grumbled Solomon, “not to be able to say ‘Here,’ when I am breaking a blood-vessel with holloing to her in the attics.  Come in here, Sir.”  This to his companion—­a man considerably his senior, thin and spare, who stood peering curiously at the landlady.  “I am sorry to see you unwell, wife.  I have brought a friend to stay with us for a day or two.  Mr. Robert Balfour—­Mrs. Coe.”

CHAPTER XL.

A PROJECTED PARTNERSHIP.

Though by no means in either the mental or physical condition in which a lady should be who is called upon to play the part of hostess, Harry was not displeased that Solomon had not returned alone.  The presence of this stranger, whom she greeted mechanically, and almost without a glance at his features, was welcome to her, because it was likely to distract from herself her husband’s regards.  What she would like to have done would have been to shut herself up alone in her chamber, to weep and pray.  As it was, she had to be cheerful, to affect an interest in her husband’s late expedition, and pleasure at his unexpected return.  Mrs. Basil was here invaluable; you would never have imagined that it was the same woman—­so stricken and full of anguish but a few minutes before, and now so self-possessed and cheerful.  But she had been used to playing parts throughout her life, and acting was easy to her.  She dreaded silence, lest with it should come observation and remark upon the agitation and distress only too visible in Harry’s countenance; and yet it was difficult, even for her, to keep up the ball of small-talk, for Solomon was always slow and scant of speech, and the new-comer rarely opened his mouth, and then only to utter a monosyllable.  His manner, too, was embarrassing; he turned his white and stony face from one woman to the other, like an automaton, but with a weird and searching gaze.