About the expiration of that time, Mr. Jesse Andrews unexpectedly revisited the office, and as soon as I was disengaged, was ushered into my private room.  He was habited in the deepest mourning, and it naturally struck me that either his wife or son was dead—­an impression, however, which a closer examination of his countenance did not confirm, knowing as I did, how affectionate a husband and father he was, with all his faults and follies, reputed to be.  He looked flurried, nervous, certainly; but there was no grief, no sorrow in the restless, disturbed glances which he directed to the floor, the ceiling, the window, the fire-place, the chairs, the table—­everywhere, in fact, except towards my face.

“What is the matter, Mr. Andrews?” I gravely inquired, seeing that he did not appear disposed to open the conversation.

“A great calamity, sir—­a great calamity,” he hurriedly and confusedly answered, his face still persistently averted from me—­“has happened!  Archy is dead!”

“Dead!” I exclaimed, considerably shocked.  “God bless me! when did this happen?”

“Three weeks ago,” was the reply.  “He died of cholera.”

“Of cholera!” This occurred, I should state, in 1830.

“Yes:  he was very assiduously attended throughout his sufferings, which were protracted and severe, by the eminent Dr. Parkinson, a highly-respectable and skilled practitioner, as you doubtless, sir, are aware.”

I could not comprehend the man.  This dry, unconcerned, business-sort of gabble was not the language of a suddenly-bereaved parent, and one, too, who had lost a considerable annuity by his son’s death.  What could it mean?  I was in truth fairly puzzled.

After a considerable interval of silence, which Mr. Andrews, whose eyes continued to wander in every direction except that of mine, showed no inclination to break, I said—­“It will be necessary for me to write immediately to your cousin, Mr. Archibald Andrews.  I trust, for your sake, the annuity will be continued; but of course, till I hear from him, the half-yearly payments must be suspended.”

“Certainly, certainly:  I naturally expected that would be the case,” said Andrews, still in the same quick, hurried tone.  “Quite so.”

“You have nothing further to say, I suppose?” I remarked, after another dead pause, during which it was very apparent that he was laboring with something to which he nervously hesitated to give utterance.

“No—­yes—­that is, I wished to consult you upon a matter of business—­connected with—­with a life-assurance office.”

“A life-assurance office?”

“Yes.”  The man’s pale face flushed crimson, and his speech became more and more hurried as he went on.  “Yes; fearing, Mr. Sharp, that should Archy die, we might be left without resource, I resolved, after mature deliberation, to effect an insurance on his life for four thousand pounds.”

“Four thousand pounds!”