coffee-house.

The worst was confirmed now. His wife, Captain Maldon's daughter was
dead.

The waiter returned in about five minutes to say that Captain Maldon was
lodging at Lansdowne Cottage, No. 4.

They easily found the house, a shabby, low-windowed cottage, looking
toward the water.

Was Captain Maldon at home? No, the landlady said; he had gone out on
the beach with his little grandson. Would the gentleman walk in and sit
down a bit?

George mechanically followed his friend into the little front
parlor--dusty, shabbily furnished, and disorderly, with a child's broken
toys scattered on the floor, and the scent of stale tobacco hanging
about the muslin window-curtains.

"Look!" said George, pointing to a picture over the mantelpiece.

It was his own portrait, painted in the old dragooning days. A pretty
good likeness, representing him in uniform, with his charger in the
background.

Perhaps the most animated of men would have been scarcely so wise a
comforter as Robert Audley. He did not utter a word to the stricken
widower, but quietly seated himself with his back to George, looking out
of the open window.