“He’s been drinking,” gasped the dismayed Mrs. Truefitt.

“Don’t you know me, mother?” inquired Mr. Richard Catesby, in grievous astonishment.

“He’s mad,” said her daughter.

“Am I so altered that you don’t know me, Prudence?” inquired Mr. Catesby; with pathos.  “Don’t you know your Fred?”

“Go out,” said Mrs. Truefitt, recovering; “go out at once.”

Mr. Catesby looked from one to the other in consternation.

“I know I’ve altered,” he said, at last, “but I’d no idea—­”

“If you don’t go out at once I’ll send for the police,” said the elder woman, sharply.  “Prudence, scream!”

“I’m not going to scream,” said Prudence, eyeing the intruder with great composure.  “I’m not afraid of him.”

Despite her reluctance to have a scene—­a thing which was strongly opposed to the traditions of Bashford’s Lane—­Mrs. Truefitt had got as far as the doorstep in search of assistance, when a sudden terrible thought occurred to her:  Fred was dead, and the visitor had hit upon this extraordinary fashion of breaking the news gently.

“Come into the parlour,” she said, faintly.

Mr. Catesby, suppressing his surprise, followed her into the room.  Prudence, her fine figure erect and her large eyes meeting his steadily, took up a position by the side of her mother.

“You have brought bad news?” inquired the latter.

“No, mother,” said Mr. Catesby, simply, “only myself, that’s all.”

Mrs. Truefitt made a gesture of impatience, and her daughter, watching him closely, tried to remember something she had once read about detecting insanity by the expression of the eyes.  Those of Mr. Catesby were blue, and the only expression in them at the present moment was one of tender and respectful admiration.

“When did you see Fred last?” inquired Mrs. Truefitt, making another effort.

“Mother,” said Mr. Catesby, with great pathos, “don’t you know me?”

“He has brought bad news of Fred,” said Mrs. Truefitt, turning to her daughter; “I am sure he has.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Catesby, with a bewildered glance from one to the other.  “I am Fred. Am I much changed?  You look the same as you always did, and it seems only yesterday since I kissed Prudence good-bye at the docks.  You were crying, Prudence.”

Miss Truefitt made no reply; she gazed at him unflinchingly and then bent toward her mother.

“He is mad,” she whispered; “we must try and get him out quietly.  Don’t contradict him.”

“Keep close to me,” said Mrs. Truefitt, who had a great horror of the insane.  “If he turns violent open the window and scream.  I thought he had brought bad news of Fred. How did he know about him?”

Her daughter shook her head and gazed curiously at their afflicted visitor.  She put his age down at twenty-five, and she could not help thinking it a pity that so good-looking a young man should have lost his wits.