An enormous increase has taken place during the past five-and-twenty years in local journalism.  England seems to have been almost Americanised in respect of news, for every centre worthy of the enterprise has been furnished with its newspaper, in which everything is told that is worthy of chronicling, and very often, from want of news, something unworthy of the paper upon which it appears.  Notably that celebrated paragraph about So-and-So’s horse and cart, which, left untended, moves on; the horse is startled by shouts, begins to trot, then gallops, and is finally stopped.  “It was fortunate that the accident occurred before noon, for at that hour the children would have been leaving school, and,” etc, etc ­suggestion of the horror of what might have been.

But Danmouth was not a centre worthy of the enterprise, and, with the exception of a few copies of the county paper which came in weekly to partly satisfy the thirst for news, the inhabitants had no fount to depend upon save Michael Wimble, and to him they gravitated for information respecting the proceedings all around, from a failure, scandal, or accident on shore up to a shipwreck.

Consequently, Wimble’s business on the morning of Gartram’s death was so great that he began to think that he must hire a boy to lather, and the leather slipper nailed up against the wall to serve as a quaintly original till had to be emptied twice.

As a rule, the “salt” personages who hung about the cliff, staring into the sea, came to be shaved on Saturdays, but the news on the wing prompted every man to have a clean shave that morning, and many a stalwart fisher lady regretted that she had not a hirsute excuse for visiting the shop.

Wimble made the most of such information as he was able to glean, and as the morning advanced, he was able to keep on making additions, till the one little seed he received first thing came up, grew and blossomed into a news plant that would have been worth a good deal in town.

Towards evening, though, the excitement at Wimbles museum had fallen off, and gathered about the Harbour Inn, where the gossips of the place, clean shaven, and looking unusually like being in holiday trim, were able to quench their double thirst.

Michael Wimble sighed as he stood at his door looking towards that inn.

“Ah,” he said to himself, “now, if I had a licence to sell beer by retail to be drunk on the premises,” ­he was quoting from a board with whose lettering he was familiar ­“they would have stopped; and my place being nearest to the Fort, the coroner would have held the inquest there.”

“Hah!” he said aloud, after a pause, “how it would have read in the paper:  `An inquest was held at Wimble’s Museum, Danmouth’ ­eh?  I beg your pardon, Mr Brime, sir; I didn’t hear you come up.  Shave, sir?  Certainly, sir.  Come in.”

Wimble’s heart beat high as he thought of the chance.  His customers had pumped him dry, and gone away; and here, by a tremendous stroke of luck, was the commencement of a perfect spring of information to refill his well right to the brim.

Reuben Brime, who looked worried and haggard, entered the museum, took his place in the Windsor arm-chair, was duly covered with the print cloth, after removing collar and tie, and laid his head back in the rest.

“Why, you look fagged out, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, quietly walking to the door, closing it, and slipping the bolt.

The gardener from the Fort was nervous and agitated.  Death in the house ­sudden death ­had unhinged him.  His master might have been poisoned, either by his own hand or by that of an enemy.  That would be murder.  He was bound, as it were, for the sacrifice; there were a dozen razors at hand; the barber’s aspect was suspicious, and he had closed the door.  What did it mean?

“I say,” cried the gardener, sitting bolt upright, “what did you do that for?”

“Do what, Mr Brime?  Fasten the door?  I’ll tell you.  I’ve been that worked this day that I haven’t had time for a decent meal, and I won’t shave another chin.  That’s what I mean.”

“Oh!” said Brime, calming down a little.

“I don’t hold with working oneself to death, sir.  Do you?”

“No; certainly not,” said the gardener, with divers memories of idle pipes in the tool-house when “Master” had gone in the quarry.

“And so say I, sir,” said Wimble.  “Nobody thinks a bit the better of you if you do.”

“That’s true,” said the gardener, letting his head sink back with a sigh, as Wimble stood before him working up the lather in his pot to a splendid consistency.

“Anxious time for you people at the Fort, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather gently, and taking care to leave his customer’s lips quite free.

“Yes,” said the gardener shortly.

“Poor man!  Ah, I wonder how many times I have shaved him, sir.”

The gardener stared straight before him in silence, frowning heavily.

“In the midst of life we are in death, Mr Brime, sir, parson says o’ Sundays,” continued Wimble, pausing to tuck the cloth a little more in round his customer’s neck.

No acquiescent reply.

“Just like things in your profession, Mr Brime, or, as I might say, in mine.  Flowers and grass comes up, and the frost takes one, and the scythe the other; or beards comes up and the hair grows, and it’s the razor for one, and the shears for the other, eh?”

“Humph!”

“Yes, sir; you are quite right,” said Wimble, replacing the brush in the pot, and proceeding to rub the soap into his customer’s cheeks, throat and chin with a long, lissome finger.

Silence.

“Wonderful stiff, wiry beard yours, Mr Brime, sir.  Pleasure to shave it, though.  I hate your fluffy beards that lie down before the razor.  Yours is a downright upright one, which meets the razor like crisp grass.  What a difference in beards.  Not in a hurry, sir, I hope?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do it well, sir, so as to make it last.  Ah, many’s the time I’ve shaved poor Mr Gartram, sir!  Hard man to please over pimples, while a nick used to make him swear terrible, and there are times when you can’t help just a touch, sir.”

“No,” said Brime, thinking of slips with the scythe.

“Good customer gone,” said the barber, resuming the brush once more, but still keeping clear of the lips.  “Always a shilling for going up and shaving him, Mr Brime.  Yes, a capital customer gone.”

Here the shaving pot was set down, and a razor taken out of a loop to re-strop.

“Bad job for me, Mr Brime.  Won’t affect you, I suppose, sir?” continued Wimble, finishing off the keen-edged razor on his palm with a loud pat, pat, pat.

“Not affect me?” said the gardener, sitting up sharply; for the barber had touched the right key at last, and the instrument began to sound.  “But it will affect me.  How do I know what’ll take place now, sir?  Saved up my little bit o’ money, and made the cottage comfortable and fit for a wife.”

“Indeed, Mr Brime, and you’d been thinking of that sort o’ thing, sir?”

“P’raps I had and p’r’aps I hadn’t,” snarled the gardener, savagely.  “Not the first man, I suppose, as thought of it.”

“No, sir, indeed.  I’ve been thinking of it for years, and making my bits o’ preparation; but,” ­he said with a sigh ­“it hasn’t come off yet.”

A brother in disappointment.  The gardener felt satisfied and disposed to be confidential, although the lather was beginning to feel cold and clammy, and the tiny vesicles were bursting and dying away.

“Yes, I were thinking about it, Mr Wimble,” he said bitterly; “and I were going to speak, and I dessay afore long you’d ha’ heared us asked in church, and now this comes and upsets it all.”

“Don’t say that, sir,” said the barber, still stropping his razor gently.  “Like everything else, it passes away and is forgotten.  You’ve only got to wait.”

“Got to wait!” cried the gardener; “why, the trouble has ’most killed her, sir, and how do I know what’s going to happen next?”

“Ah, bad indeed, sir.”

“Our young Miss’ll never stop in that great place now; and, of course, it’s a month’s warning, and not a chance of another place nigh here.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Mr Brime, sir.  That’s the worst way of looking at it.”

“Ay, but it’s the true way.”

“You’re a bit upset with trouble now, sir.  You wait.  Why, there’s a fine chance here for a clever man like yourself to set up for himself in the fruit and greengrocery.  See what a job it is to get a bit of decent green stuff.  I never know what it is.  Leastways, I shouldn’t if it weren’t for a friend bringing me in a morsel o’ fruit now and then.”

“Ah, it’s all over with that now, Mr Wimble.  Poor master; and we may as well give up all thoughts o’ wedding.  Strange set-out it’s been.”

“Ah!” said Wimble; and pat, pat, pat, went the razor over his hand as the lather dried.

“I can’t see much chance for Mr Glyddyr now.”

“Ah! he was going to marry Miss Gartram, wasn’t he?”

“He’d ha’ liked to, and the poor guvnor was on for it; but I know a little more about that than he did.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Brime, lookers-on sees more of the game.  I always used to think ­but of course it was no business of mine ­that it was to be Mr Christopher Lisle, till he seemed to be chucked over like ­and for looking elsewhere,” he added between his teeth.

“Looking elsewhere?  Gammon!”

“Oh, but he does, sir.”

“Yah!  Not he, Wimble.  He’s dead on to the young missus.”

“No, no, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, waving his razor; “you’ll excuse me.  You’re wrong there.”

“Wrong?” cried the gardener, excitedly.  “Bet you a shilling on it.  No, I don’t want to rob you, because I know.”

“Well, you may know a deal about gardening, Mr Brime,” said Wimble deprecatingly, as he shook his head shrewdly; “but fax is fax.”

“Not always, Wimble.  You won’t let it go no further, because he’s a good sort.”

“If you feel as you can’t trust me, Mr Brime, sir,” said the barber, laying down the razor and taking up the brush and shaving pot once more to dip the former very slowly in the hot water.

“Oh, you won’t tell,” said Brime, who had calmed his excitement with a great many glasses of the household ale at the Fort.  “You’re all wrong.  Mr Lisle’s after our young Miss still; and ­you mark my words ­as soon as they decently can, they’ll marry.”

“No, sir, no,” said Wimble, shaking his head, with his eyes fixed upon his best razor, and his mind upon Mrs Sarson; “you’re wrong.”

“Why, he was up at our place to see her only last night.”

“No!”

“He was, and I ketched him on the hop.”

“You don’t say so.”

“But I do.  He owned what he was up there for, poor chap, for the guv’nor was very rough on him at last.  I took him for a boy after our fruit.”

“Are you talking about last night, when your Master died?” said Wimble, breathlessly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Where was he then?”

“Down our garden, on the sly.”

Wimble’s face was a study.

“It was like this.  He didn’t know there was company, and he was trying to get a word with Miss Claude; but, of course, she couldn’t get to him, because there was Mr Glider and the doctor there.”

“Well, you do surprise me, Mr Brime.”

“Yes:  where would your shilling be now, eh?”

“Well, young folks will be young folks; but I was deceived.”

“Yes, you were.  Poor chap.  He little thought when he left me in low spirits, because he couldn’t get to see his lass, how soon his chances were going to mend.  Bah!  Miss Claude didn’t care that for the other one ­a mean, sneaking sort of fellow.  How the poor guv’nor could have taken to him as he did, I don’t know.”

“Well, you do surprise me,” said Wimble, re-tucking in the cloth which had been disarranged by Brime’s “don’t care that” and snap of the fingers.

“Yes, I thought I could; but keep it quiet.”

“By all means, Mr Brime.  Your girl’s in sad trouble, I suppose?”

“Crying her eyes out, poor lass.  Master was as hard as his own stone; but they had been very fond of each other.”

“Yes; and I s’pose he was a good-hearted, generous man underneath.  Give away a great deal to the poor.”

“Not he, Wimble.  There was a deal given away, but it was Miss Claude did all that, bless her.  Master ­there; I’m not going to say a word again’ the dead.”

“No, no, of course not, sir; but what trouble you must be in!”

“Trouble, sir!  When I heard of it this morning, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”

“Hah! very awful really, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather again, and this time in so thoughtful a manner that the gardener’s mouth disappeared in the soapy foam, and the desire for more information seemed to have gone.

“Was Chris Lisle up at the Fort last night?  Was our suspicions unjust, then?”

“Then, it must be all on her side,” thought Wimble, beginning to strop his razor again fiercely, and he operated directly after with so much savage energy, that the gardener’s hands clutched the sides of the chair, and he held on, with the perspiration oozing out upon his forehead, and causing a tickling sensation around the roots of his hair.

“Find it hot, Mr Brime, sir?” said the barber, as he gave a few finishing touches to his patient’s chin.

“Very,” said the gardener, with a sigh of relief, as the razor was wiped and thrown down, and a cool, wet sponge removed the last traces of the soap; “you went over me so quick, I was afraid of an accident.”

“No fear, sir.  When a man’s shaved a hundred thousand people, he isn’t likely to make a mistake.  Thank you, sir; and I hope you will get everything settled all right up yonder.  When’s the funeral?”

“Don’t know yet, sir.  When the doctors and coroners have done, I suppose.”

“Hum!” said Wimble to himself, as he ran over the gardener’s words.  “Then, perhaps I have been wrong about him, but I can’t be about her.  She wouldn’t have held me off all this time if she hadn’t had thoughts elsewhere.”

He was standing at the door as he spoke, probably meaning to receive more customers after all, for he did not slip the bolt.

“Up there in the garden, last night, to see the young lady, and the next morning Mr Gartram found dead.  Well, it’s a terrible affair.”

Michael Wimble had obtained more information than he had anticipated, and of a very different class.