‘I’ve been keeping a secret from you,’ said Horace, in the low voice which had to express his sorrow,—­for he could not preserve a gloomy countenance with Fanny before him.  ‘But I can tell you now.’

‘A secret?  And what business had you to keep secrets from me?’

’It’s about Mrs. Damerel.  When I was at the seaside she told me who she really is.  She’s my aunt—­my mother’s sister.  Queer, isn’t it?  Of course that makes everything different.  And she’s going to ask you to come and see her.  It’ll have to be put off a little—­now; but not very long, I dare say, as she’s a relative.  You’ll have to do your best to please her.’

’I’m sure I shan’t put myself out of the way.  People must take me as they find me.’

’Now don’t talk like that, Fanny.  It isn’t very kind—­just now.  I thought you’d be different to-day.’

‘All right.—­Have you anything else to tell me?’

Horace understood her significant glance, and shook his head.

‘I’ll let you know everything as soon as I know myself.’

Having learnt the day and hour of Mr. Lord’s funeral, Ada and Fanny made a point of walking out to get a glimpse of it.  The procession of vehicles in Grove Lane excited their contempt, so far was it from the splendour they had anticipated.

‘There you are!’ said Ada; ’I shouldn’t wonder if it’s going to be a jolly good take in for you, after all.  If he’d died worth much, they wouldn’t have buried him like that.’

Fanny’s heart sank.  She could conceive no other explanation ofa simple burial save lack of means, or resentment in the survivors at the disposition made of his property by the deceased.  When, on the morrow, Horace told her that his father had strictly charged Mr Barmby to have him buried in the simplest mode compatible with decency, she put it down to the old man’s excessive meanness.

On this occasion she learnt the contents of Mr. Lord’s will, and having learnt them, got rid of Horace as soon as possible that she might astonish her sisters with the report.

In the afternoon of that day, Beatrice had an appointment with Luckworth Crewe.  She was to meet him at the office he had just taken in Farringdon Street, whence they would repair to a solicitor’s in the same neighbourhood, for the discussion of legal business connected with Miss.  French’s enterprise.  She climbed the staircase of a big building, and was directed to the right door by the sound of Crewe’s voice, loudly and jocularly discoursing.  He stood with two men in the open doorway, and at the sight of Beatrice waved a hand to her.

‘Take your hook, you fellows; I have an engagement.’  The men, glancing at Miss.  French facetiously, went their way.  ’How do, old chum?  It’s all in a mess yet; hold your skirts together.  Come along this way.’

Through glue-pots and shavings and an overpowering smell of paint, Beatrice followed to inspect the premises, which consisted of three rooms; one, very much the smallest, about ten feet square.  Three workmen were busy, and one, fitting up shelves, whistled a melody with ear-piercing shrillness.