Not knowing the name of it, and not daring to excite surprise by asking, I found the place full of vague yet mysterious interest.  Here I was, somewhere in central England, just as ignorant of localities as if I had been suddenly deposited in Central Africa.  My lively fancy revelled in the new sensation.  I invented a name for the town, a code of laws for the inhabitants, productions, antiquities, chalybeate springs, population, statistics of crime, and so on, while I walked about the streets, looked in at the shop-windows, and attentively examined the Market-place and Town-hall.  Experienced travelers, who have exhausted all novelties, would do well to follow my example; they may be certain, for one day at least, of getting some fresh ideas, and feeling a new sensation.

On returning to dinner in the coffee-room, I found all the London papers on the table.

The Morning Post happened to lie uppermost, so I took it away to my own seat to occupy the time, while my unpretending bit of fish was frying.  Glancing lazily at the advertisements on the first page, to begin with, I was astonished by the appearance of the following lines, at the top of a column: 

“If F—­ —­K S—­FTL—­Y will communicate with his distressed and alarmed relatives, Mr. and Mrs. B—­TT—­RB—­RY, he will hear of something to his advantage, and may be assured that all will be once more forgiven.  A—­B—­LLA entreats him to write.”

What, in the name of all that is most mysterious, does this mean! was my first thought after reading the advertisement.  Can Lady Malkinshaw have taken a fresh lease of that impregnable vital tenement, at the door of which Death has been knocking vainly for so many years past? (Nothing more likely.) Was my felonious connection with Doctor Dulcifer suspected? (It seemed improbable.) One thing, however, was certain:  I was missed, and the Batterburys were naturally anxious about me—­anxious enough to advertise in the public papers.

I debated with myself whether I should answer their pathetic appeal or not.  I had all my money about me (having never let it out of my own possession during my stay in the red-brick house), and there was plenty of it for the present; so I thought it best to leave the alarm and distress of my anxious relatives unrelieved for a little while longer, and to return quietly to the perusal of the _ Morning Post._

Five minutes of desultory reading brought me unexpectedly to an explanation of the advertisement, in the shape of the following paragraph: 

“ALARMING ILLNESS OF LADY MALKINSHAW.—­We regret to announce that this venerable lady was seized with an alarming illness on Saturday last, at her mansion in town.  The attack took the character of a fit—­of what precise nature we have not been able to learn.  Her ladyship’s medical attendant and near relative, Doctor Softly, was immediately called in, and predicted the most fatal results.  Fresh medical attendance was secured, and her ladyship’s