“I knew it would be so.  He has been here.  I saw him round the corner.  Looking pale and mad.”

“You are right, madam.  He has been here.”

Mrs. Frump’s pleasant little eyes shone with unnatural anger, and there was a presage of wrathful words in her quivering lips.  Mrs. Frump was desperately trying to keep back certain private opinions that she had long entertained, but proved unequal to the effort.  She burst out with: 

“He’s an undutiful son, sir.  A monster, sir.  And he’s killing his poor father.  He’s—­”

“Ah! what?” said Mr. Van Quintem, opening his eyes, and looking wildly around, like one who wakes from a horrible dream.

“It’s I. Your niece—­Gusty,” replied Mrs. Frump, changing her assumed harsh tones into her natural soft ones “And I think you had better go to bed.  Please take hold, Mr. Wilkeson, and assist him to the next room.”  She added, in a whisper, “Don’t talk with him any more to-day.”

Mr. Wilkeson nodded, raised his eyebrows to signify that he appreciated the advice, and proceeded at once to aid Mrs. Frump in her benevolent task.  The old gentleman had considerably revived by this time.

“You are right, my dear Gusty,” said he, looking fondly at his niece.  “You are always right.  And you are right, too, sir,” he added, turning to Marcus.  “Ah, if I had known such a good adviser years ago.”

Marcus, remembering Mrs. Frump’s injunction, made no answer to this remark.

When the old gentleman had been led tottering into the adjacent parlor, which was fitted up as his bedroom, and placed comfortably on a high prop of pillows, Marcus drew out his watch, made an amiable pretence of very important business down town, and bade his venerable friend “good-by.”

“I had hoped you could stay longer; for I feel that you are a true friend, and I can confide my sorrows to you,” murmured the old gentleman, taking his guest fondly by the hand.

But Marcus, fortified by another significant look from Mrs. Frump, declared that business was imperative, and he must go.  He would call to-morrow, without fail, and hoped to find his friend as cheerful as a cricket.  The old gentleman smiled at the absurdity of that hope, and said he should depend on seeing him to-morrow.

So, shaking hands warmly with Mr. Van Quintem, and bowing most respectfully to Mrs. Frump, Marcus took his departure, and meditated, as he walked slowly home, on the strange occurrences of the day.

CHAPTER IV.

WESLEY TIFFLES.

One evening, shortly after the events narrated in the last chapter, the three bachelors, having finished dinner, and escaped from the grim presence of Miss Philomela Wilkeson, took their accustomed seats and pipes in the little back parlor.  The curtains were drawn, the gas was lighted, the fire burning brightly, and, upon these outward tokens of cheer, the three bachelors reflected contentment and happiness from their six eyes.  In his own opinion, each of the three had unlimited cause to be happy; and not even that killjoy of the household, Miss Wilkeson, could mar the completeness of their felicity—­when she was not present.