It is not a matter of wonder that when final arrangements had to be made, the keys of the house placed in the agent’s hands, and the inventory looked over, the Calcutta newspaper which had arrived that morning should lie unopened on the table, beside the packets of groceries and such like things that had been prepared for the voyage. But other copies of that newspaper had reached Moulmein, and had not been equally neglected. One was in the hands of Mrs. Cottle as she was sitting at breakfast with her husband. Being busily occupied with his fried fish and anchovy sauce, Cottle had deferred the perusal of the paper, and left his wife to look out first for the paragraphs of gossip and scandal which were to her the sauce to a dry dish of politics and statistics.
“Bless my heart! bless my heart! bless my heart!” exclaimed Mrs. Cottle, each repetition of the blessing made in a louder and more emphatic tone, which roused the attention of her spouse.
“What is it, my dear?” quoth Cottle.
“I always knew it; I always said it. He was no fit company for us, the hypocritical, sneaking, bloodthirsty villain.”
“Who is it, my dear?” asked Cottle, laying down his knife and fork to listen with more undivided attention.
“Here is a paragraph—look; it is easy enough to make out its meaning,” cried Mrs. Cottle, and with terrible emphasis she read aloud from the paper:—
“MURDER BY A GENTLEMAN.—It is reported that a Mr. C—— of M——n has confessed to having killed, by throwing down a cliff, a person against whom he had a grudge. As Mr. C—— is said to be of very good family, with high connections, the case is likely to excite great interest in England amongst the upper ten thousand.”
“But we are not of the upper ten thousand, so what is it to us?” said honest John Cottle.
“We know Mr. Coldstream, and it must be he!” cried his partner; “M——n must stand for Moulmein.”
“It might stand for Moultan or Macedon,” quoth Cottle. “And C is a common letter enough; it might stand for my name.”