Widger till there was no more (save tears)
to be pumped out of her, Mrs. Quelch, still firmly grasping her
umbrella, proceeded next door, on the chance that her neighbour,
Mrs. Fladgate, might be able to give her some information. She found
Mrs. Fladgate weeping in the parlour with an open telegram before
her. Being a woman who did not stand upon ceremony, she read the
telegram, which was dated from Dieppe and ran as follows: "Monsieur
Fladgate here detained for to have smuggle cigars. Fine to pay,
one hundred franc. Send money and he will be release."
"Oh, the men, the men!" ejaculated Mrs. Quelch, as she dropped
into an arm-chair. "They're all alike. First Benjamin, and now
Fladgate! I shouldn't wonder if they had gone off together."
"You don't mean to say Mr. Quelch has gone too?" sobbed Mrs.
Fladgate.
"He has taken a shameful advantage of my absence. He has not been
home since Thursday evening, and his hat is hanging up in the hall."
"You don't think he has been m-m-murdered?"
"I'm not afraid of _that_," replied Mrs. Quelch, "it wouldn't
be worth anybody's while. But what has he got on his head? that's
what I want to know. Of course, if he's with Mr.
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