“Yes, madam.  I’ll fetch him at once,” said he, and he disappeared behind the safe.  The two customers discussed the watch.  Then the door opened in the glass screen, and a portly, middle-aged man showed himself.  He was dressed in blue broad-cloth, with a turned-down collar and a small black tie.  His waistcoat displayed a plain but heavy gold watch-chain, and his cuff-links were of plain gold.  His eye-glasses were gold-rimmed.  He had grey hair, beard and moustache, but on the backs of his hands grew a light brown hair.  His appearance was strangely mild, dignified, and confidence-inspiring.  He was, in fact, one of the most respected tradesmen in Manchester.

He peered forward, looking over his eye-glasses, which he then took off, holding them up in the air by their short handle.  Sophia had approached him.

“Mrs. Scales?” he said, in a very quiet, very benevolent voice.  Sophia nodded.  “Please come this way.”  He took her hand, squeezing it commiseratingly, and drew her into the sanctum.  “I didn’t expect you so soon,” he said.  “I looked up th’ trains, and I didn’t see how you could get here before six.”

Sophia explained.

He led her further, through the private office, into a sort of parlour, and asked her to sit down.  And he too sat down.  Sophia waited, as it were, like a suitor.

“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Mrs. Scales,” he said, still in that mild, benevolent voice.

“He’s dead?” Sophia asked.

Mr. Till Boldero nodded.  “He’s dead.  I may as well tell you that he had passed away before I telegraphed.  It all happened very, very suddenly.”  He paused.  “Very, very suddenly!”

“Yes,” said Sophia, weakly.  She was conscious of a profound sadness which was not grief, though it resembled grief.  And she had also a feeling that she was responsible to Mr. Till Boldero for anything untoward that might have occurred to him by reason of Gerald.

“Yes,” said Mr. Till Boldero, deliberately and softly.  “He came in last night just as we were closing.  We had very heavy rain here.  I don’t know how it was with you.  He was wet, in a dreadful state, simply dreadful.  Of course, I didn’t recognize him.  I’d never seen him before, so far as my recollection goes.  He asked me if I was the son of Mr. Till Boldero that had this shop in 1866.  I said I was.  ‘Well,’ he says, ’you’re the only connection I’ve got.  My name’s Gerald Scales.  My mother was your father’s cousin.  Can you do anything for me?’ he says.  I could see he was ill.  I had him in here.  When I found he couldn’t eat nor drink I thought I’d happen better send for th’ doctor.  The doctor got him to bed.  He passed away at one o’clock this afternoon.  I was very sorry my wife wasn’t here to look after things a bit better.  But she’s at Southport, not well at all.”

“What was it?” Sophia asked briefly.

Mr. Boldero indicated the enigmatic.  “Exhaustion, I suppose,” he replied.