They lived together, and yet so isolated; they seldom spoke to each other—they never quarrelled. Misfortune, which had at first made them cling closer to each other, had finished by making them gloomy, taciturn, almost misanthropical.
They had now learned to nurse their own sorrows in their own hearts, and never to give vent to their troubles by words.
Such misfortunes, however, as they had become inured to were now about to yield to another—poignant, appalling, dangerous.
There was a sound of bustling and voices in the kitchen which reached into the dining-room. The servant presented himself and informed his master that Mr. Todd, of the local police force, wished to speak to him.
The magistrate requested his domestic to show the officer in.
Mr. Kensett rose. His face, which had been before melancholy and abstracted, now became dignified and severe.
It was necessary to put on the mask of self-composure which he was obliged to wear before the world.
Mr. Todd entered and made a respectful obeisance.
“Beg your pardon, sir, and yours too, madam,” said he, in a conciliatory tone; “but if you please, sir, I’ve managed to capture the fellow who has been defrauding the bank by a false cheque.”
“Indeed, Mr. Todd; I am pleased to hear it,” exclaimed the magistrate. “Caught the rascal—have you?”