"Naturally, in the first place, by you, as her business agent, because, in the event of Bob being dead, the legacy will fall to his heirs. Failing you, naturally by Paxton and Freshfield, who have this inconsiderable business in hand, and whose duty it is to attend to it. Probably we shall await some communication from you or Mrs. Grantham upon the matter. It may be that Paxton and Freshfield will expect something from you in the shape of a document, such, for instance, as proof of poor Bob's death; and they might consider it advisable to ask for certain particulars, such as the place and date of his death, where buried, etcetera. All of which you will be able to supply, being positive that Mrs. Grantham is a widow. Now, Fox, I have still a word or two to say to you in private. Call it an adventure, an impression, what you will; it occurred to me, and it would be unfair to keep it from Charlotte's brother. Until to-day I have not mentioned it to a soul. We have passed through a hard winter, as you know, and have established a record in fogs. I do not remember a year in which we have had so many foggy days and nights, and the month of March usurped the especial privilege of the month of November. I cannot recall the precise date, but it was about the middle of March when I walked from the Strand into Regent Street by way of the Seven Dials. It was one of the foggiest nights we had, and I had to be careful how I picked my steps. Men walked a yard or two ahead of you, and you could not see their faces, could scarcely distinguish their forms; but quite close, elbow to elbow, as it were, you might by chance catch a momentary glance of a face. A flash, and it was gone, swallowed up in Egyptian darkness. Two men passed me arm-in-arm, and, looking up, I could have sworn that I saw the face of Robert Grantham's ghost. I turned to follow it, but it was gone. That is all, Fox; I thought you would like to know."
If a face of the pallid hue of Mr. Fox-Cordery's could be said to grow white, it may be said of his at this revelation; otherwise he betrayed no sign of agitation. He made no comment upon it, and asked no questions; but the indefinite change of color did not escape John Dixon's observation.
"It is a pleasure to know that you have emptied your budget," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Dixon."
"Good-morning, Fox," said John Dixon. "You will probably acknowledge that I had a sufficient reason for paying you this visit."
He did not wait for the acknowledgment, but took his departure without another word.
Mr. Fox-Cordery stood motionless by the window. There was writing on the dreary back wall, invisible to all eyes but his.
"If he has betrayed me!" he muttered; "if he has betrayed me!" and pursued his thought no further in spoken words.
A quarter of an hour afterward he went to his mother.
"Have you given Charlotte her clothes?" he asked.
"Not yet, Fox," she replied. "What did that man want with you?"