Chapter VII: Part 7

“That’s me,” accepted Mr. Tridge, complacently. “Follered me all over the place, they ’ave and hoffered me any amount of money for it. But I ain’t a wobbler. What I says I sticks to. See? Let’s ’ave another!”

“Yes, let’s,” agreed Mr. Sinnett, eagerly.

“Tried to steal it off me, them niggers ’ave,” said Mr. Tridge, disdainfully, after the rites consequent on a further libation had been observed. “But I’m a match for _them_ any day. And they talks about sticking me next time they come across me. Let ’em try that on, that’s all!”

“But why do you think they are so anxious to get it back? What do they want to—”

“Hidol!” sagely returned Mr. Tridge, with an explanatory wave of his glass. “What they says their prayers to. Sort of—sort of marscutt, you know. You know, if you ’ad a marscutt and you lost it, ’ow everything ’ud seem to go wrong for you? Not that it’s brought me much luck.”

“Perhaps these niggers you spoke of was at the back of it?” suggested Mr. Sinnett.

“Maybe,” said Mr. Tridge, with sublime carelessness. “There was always a nigger around whenever things went wrong, anyway. But I’m a British seaman, I am, and I don’t take no notice of niggers. See? And I’m surprised as _you_ should, either!”

“I—I wasn’t thinking,” apologized Mr. Sinnett. “But tell me—do you think perhaps the idol is valuable?”

Mr. Tridge noisily laughed the notion to scorn.

“You ought to see it!” he cried. “Just a figger of fun made of brass, with bits of green glass for eyes.”

Mr. Sinnett sat vigilantly upright.

“Oh, but are you sure they _are_ glass?” he asked.

“Why, what else _could_ they be?” returned Mr. Tridge.

“They—they might—” began Mr. Sinnett, and then checked himself. “Er—quite so,” he ended, belatedly. “What else _could_ they be?”

Mr. Tridge, carelessly flicking the question out of the range of further consideration, now stated that he felt quite recovered from the attack that had been made upon him, and earnestly besought Mr. Sinnett to maintain silence as to the incident, if for no other reason than for the good repute of the Magnolia Toilet Saloon.

“I been wild in my time,” confessed Mr. Tridge, “but I don’t want folks to think that I’m the rough character I used to be. See? And now good-night, and thank ’ee.”

He steered for the door. Mr. Sinnett, with a kindly smile, insisted on accompanying him.

“You—you might be took bad again,” he urged, linking arms with him. “I’ll come your way and see you safe home.”

And this he very charitably did. Mr. Tridge, although leaning heavily on his companion’s supportive arm, none the less otherwise ignored the presence of Mr. Sinnett. Moved by contact with the open air to a reflective mood, Mr. Tridge, as he walked, growled aloud a resentful epitome of his conversation in the “Cutlass and Cannon,” coming back again and again to dwell on his firmness in refusing to part with his booty. Arrived at the door of his lodgings, he found his latchkey, and then turned to his escort.

“’Ullo, where did _you_ spring from?” he asked, dully.

“I’ve been seeing you home,” replied Mr. Sinnett, in benevolent accents.

“Like your cheek!” grunted Mr. Tridge. “Ne’ mind! Jolly good fellow! Mush ’bliged! Goo’ night!”

He opened the door, and was passing over the threshold, when Mr. Sinnett addressed him a little desperately.

“Ain’t you—ain’t you going to ask me in?” he queried.

“No!” said Mr. Tridge, flatly. “You leave me ’lone!”

“I—I’d like to have a look at that idol you was talking about. Just—just see it, you know.”

“Hidol?” exclaimed Mr. Tridge, staring about him alarmedly. “What hidol? I don’t know nothing about no hidol!”

“Oh, but you’ve been telling me—”

“I ain’t never seen no hidol, not nowhere!” declared Mr. Tridge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Hidol, hindeed! ’Ere,” he quavered, “’ave I been fool enough to— But that’s all right! I know I ain’t—I’ve only jus’ met you this very minute, and I ain’t ’ad time to. Well, goo’ ni’, old chum!”

He leered owlishly upon Mr. Sinnett, shook him by the hand, and lurched most realistically over the threshold. Quietly he shut the door, and instantly all inconsequence of manner vanished from him. He stood to listen to the slow, receding footsteps of Mr. Sinnett, and at that moment the two gentlemen exhibited exactly the same exultant expression of countenance.

“We got ’im!” remarked Mr. Tridge to himself, with vast satisfaction.

“Talk about sheer _luck_!” joyously murmured Mr. Sinnett, as he walked away. “George, my boy, you’re on the track of something good! Why, it’s like one of them old detective tales come true!”

For the ensuing portion of the week, Mr. Sinnett’s everyday pursuits suffered neglect, for that worthy had apparently conceived an obsession to have either Mr. Tridge or Mr. Clark continually under observation. And so for each of several mornings he entered the Magnolia Toilet Saloon and sat him down on the bench where those waited who required Mr. Tridge’s professional services.

Here Mr. Sinnett would become so engrossed in the newspaper that he would waive his turn for attention till he was the only patron remaining. And when he had no further pretext for lingering, he would be shaved, and then go off to the ferry, where he would be needlessly rowed across the ferry and return by that conveyance almost immediately.

And in the afternoon he would find that he had need of toilet soap, or a bottle of hair-oil, and he would repair to Mr. Tridge’s establishment to procure such article, making the matter of purchase as protracted a business as possible. And then he would saunter down to the ferry and, alleging that sea air was good for him, be taken several consecutive journeys across the river under the impulse of Mr. Clark’s sculls.

And in the evening he would visit the “Flag and Pennant” inn, or such other tavern as might be extending its hospitality to Mr. Tridge or Mr. Clark, and here he would laboriously contrive desultory conversation with one or other of them until doors had to be closed, when his way would strangely coincide with the homeward path of that gentleman of the twain in whose society closing-time had found him.

But never a word was there spoken of an idol of any sort. Twice or thrice Mr. Sinnett had broached Imperialism as a topic of conversation, being thus enabled to allude to India in a natural, unforced way. But mention of that empire had instantly caused both Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark to look suspicious and markedly avoid any development of the subject, so that Mr. Sinnett had to travel warily back, by way of Canada and Australia and New Zealand, to shallower waters.

And, for their part, Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark bore the partiality of Mr. Sinnett for their society with nothing but a nice air of gratitude for patronage. Not once did either of them make allusion to that recent evening when they had shown him something of the inner side of their confidence. And Mr. Sinnett was glad that this should be so, for clearly, he argued, it showed that the conversations had had no abiding place in their memories. Wherefore, then, he cultivated their company, waiting for a chance word to swell the bulk of his secret information and give him assistance in turning this knowledge to his own profit.

“Ever seen a cat waiting outside a mouse-’ole? That’s ’im!” Mr. Clark privately reported to Mr. Horace Dobb.

“A bit of waiting don’t do no ’arm,” said Mr. Dobb, sagaciously. “The more time ’e spends the less ’e’ll like to think that it might ’ave been wasted.”

So that it was not till one evening in the middle of the following week that Mr. Sinnett was thrilled by a further unwinding of the spool of adventure.

On that night, neither Mr. Clark nor Mr. Tridge were to be discovered in accustomed haunts, and Mr. Sinnett, fearful of this coincidence, went from hostelry to hostelry in feverish search. Returning to the “Royal William Hotel” for a second time, he again questioned the billiard-marker.

“No, Mr. Tridge ain’t been in here yet, sir,” Mr. Lock replied. “In fact, I was just wondering whether you’d come across him anywhere. There’s been some one inquiring very eager after him since you was here a hour ago.”

“Who was it—that ferryman?”

“No, sir; a dark gentleman.”

“A—a nigger?” exclaimed Mr. Sinnett.

“Well, yes; except that he was dressed quite respectable,” acquiesced Mr. Lock. “Oh, very respectable indeed. He looked as if he might be pretty well off at home.”

“Did he say he wanted to see Tridge important?”

“Very important, so he said, sir. He said something about only just having managed to find out where he was, and about a boat sailing back almost immediate.”

“Um-m-m,” commented Mr. Sinnett, and thoughtfully began to stroke his chin. “Did he—did the nigger say where he was stopping, or anything like that?”

“No, sir. I told him where Mr. Tridge lodged, and—”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!”

“No, sir? Why not?”

“Oh, because—”

Mr. Sinnett, without furnishing the explanation, stopped short, for Mr. Tridge had just entered the room. Conspicuously bandaged was Mr. Tridge’s right hand, and a huge asterisk of sticking-plaster decorated his left cheek.

“’Ad a bit of a haccident,” he returned, evasively, when Mr. Sinnett asked a surprised question. “Cut meself.”

“How?” further inquired Mr. Sinnett.

“With a knife,” said Mr. Tridge.

“Whatever was you a-doing of, sir?” asked Mr. Lock.

“What the devil’s that got to do with you?” roared Mr. Tridge. “You shut up and mind your own business!”

“Sorry, sir,” humbly apologized Mr. Lock. “By the way, sir, there was a dark gent inquiring for you.”

“I know,” said Mr. Tridge, curtly. “I met ’im!”

And now the door opened, and the visage of Mr. Clark stared round it. Vengeful and gloating was the stout ferryman’s face, and he nodded with malevolent satisfaction at Mr. Tridge.

“Ah, ’e told me ’e ’ad!” he cried. “Good luck to ’im!”

“You get out!” shouted Mr. Tridge, passionately. “Else I’ll serve you like I did ’im!”

“Pooh, ’e was only shamming!” retorted Mr. Clark. “’E got up again and walked away soon as you’d gone.”

“Well, shut up, anyway!” ordered Mr. Tridge, with a warning scowl. “Don’t you think you’ve said more than enough already?”

“Them?” said Mr. Clark, glancing carelessly at Mr. Sinnett and Mr. Lock. “They don’t know nothing.”

“Oh, well, ’e didn’t get it, anyway!” declared Mr. Tridge.

“’E’ll get it all right in the end,” prophesied Mr. Clark, darkly. “You mightn’t get off so lucky next time.”

“’E’ll never get it,” stated Mr. Tridge, with dour confidence.

“Not if you deals fair by me,” said Mr. Clark. “P’r’aps he won’t, then, not against the two of us.”

“I’ve told you I ain’t sharing, once and for all!” bellowed Mr. Tridge.

“All right!” growled Mr. Clark. “You’ll be sorry. I could tell you something if I liked. Made _me_ sit up when I ’eard it, anyway. Look ’ere, I give you fair warning—in future it’s either to be me and you, or me and _’im_! Take your choice. Anyway, after what I’ve learnt to-night, I’m going to be _in_ it, some-’ow!”

“Nothing doing!” announced Mr. Tridge, stoutly.

“All right,” said Mr. Clark, in the most sinister fashion. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

He withdrew. Mr. Tridge began to whistle a little flatly, as though unaware of the absorbed gaze bent upon him by the other two men present.

“Reminds me—letter to post!” ejaculated Mr. Sinnett, suddenly; and followed after Mr. Clark, in a state of the keenest excitement.

Mr. Clark had proceeded but as far as the tap-room of the “Royal William,” and here Mr. Sinnett unostentatiously took up a strategic position in the chair next to him. For some while Mr. Clark displayed an introspective moodiness, sipping at his refreshment and nodding his head with the same grim air of determination.

But presently he turned towards Mr. Sinnett, and, after eyeing him cautiously, addressed him in the gruff tones of one determined to check any unnecessary extension of talk.

“’Ow much is hemeralds worth?” he asked.

“Emeralds?” fluttered Mr. Sinnett. “Emeralds?” He paused to strive for greater self-control.

“That’s what I said,” observed Mr. Clark, surlily. “Hemeralds. You know, them green stones.”

“It—it depends.”

“I see,” said Mr. Clark, and pointedly turned his shoulder to Mr. Sinnett.

“How—how big are they?” ventured Mr. Sinnett.

“Both of ’em are a pretty fair size,” said Mr. Clark. “But it don’t matter. I—I was only just wondering. See?”

He brought his back even more deliberately into Mr. Sinnett’s cognizance, and the conversation ended. And, a few minutes after, he quitted the room with so ungenial an air that Mr. Sinnett had not the courage to accompany him. And he found Mr. Tridge was gone from the billiard-room, so that there was nothing left for Mr. Sinnett to do but to retire home to spend a night of fitful slumber.

Early next morning did he enter the Magnolia Toilet Saloon, drawn thither by an irresistible desire to keep abreast of every development in this affair which so tantalizingly suggested personal profit without indicating the means thereto.

“Morning, sir!” said Mr. Tridge.

“Morning!” returned Mr. Sinnett. “I just looked in to see how those wounds of yours are getting on.”

“Oh, they’re all right,” said Mr. Tridge; and added, in the casual tones of heroism, “Matter of fact, it was a bit of a scrap. And, what’s more, I ’ad another one after I left you last evening. Only, of course, I don’t want you to talk about ’em. It won’t do this ’ere saloon no good.”

“And—and the second scrap?”

“Ah, that was in my lodgings! When I got ’ome,” narrated Mr. Tridge, “I see my window open. Indoors I goes, very quiet. Blest if they wasn’t trying to burgle me!”

“Burgle you? Who was?”

“Why, that—oh, just a couple of chaps. I ’it out at ’em, and they closed with me. In the end,” concluded Mr. Tridge, modestly, “they was both glad enough to jump out of the window.”

“Well, well!” breathed Mr. Sinnett.

Mr. Tridge smiled, and then broke into chuckles.

“It’s rather a joke,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you something, if you promise you won’t repeat it.”

“Oh, I promise!” cried Mr. Sinnett, readily.

“Well, they was after something that wasn’t there at all! Mind you, they _thought_ it was! It was something I’d ’ad for a long time, and they was very anxious to get it. Many and many a try they’d ’ad for it. But I wouldn’t let ’em ’ave it. The first scrap last night—that was one of their hattempts. Any one might think it worth ’undreds of pounds, the way they keeps on trying. But it ain’t.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Mr. Sinnett, in strained tones.

“Only as a curiosity. It’s vallyble, far as that goes. Anyway, I ’ad no difficulty in getting twelve quid for it last night.”

“You—you’ve sold it?” cried Mr. Sinnett.

“I ’ave. After that first scrap last night, I got so sick about ’aving to bother about its being safe always that I just took and sold it. Not to _them_, of course, I wouldn’t give in to _them_. I sold it to Dobb, in Fore Street. ’E see at once that it was a genuine curiosity, and ’e didn’t ’aggle a bit.”

For several long seconds Mr. Sinnett stared at Mr. Tridge. Then, with a start, he purchased a superfluous stick of shaving-soap, and wandered from the premises. Scarce had he gone twenty yards when he found himself accosted by Mr. Peter Lock.

“Just the very gent I was ’oping to see!” said Mr. Peter Lock, exhibiting suppressed excitement. “There’s something a bit queer afoot, sir, what I’d like to talk over with you. You know about that row Mr. Tridge ’ad with the ferryman last night. At least, I think it’s something to do with that.”

“We can talk in here,” said Mr. Sinnett; and drew Mr. Lock into the “Bunch o’ Grapes.”

“Mind you, sir, I don’t take no responsibility,” said Mr. Lock. “But it’s queer. That Indian gent come into the billiard-room not half an hour ago. He said he’d arranged to meet Clark, the ferryman, there at noon, but he found he must get back to London by the eleven-eleven train this morning. And so he gave me a note to hand to him.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, he said something about advising Clark to lay low after last night. He said he’d forgot to put that in the note, and asked me to mention it to Clark. Remembered it just as he was going, he did, and come back to tell me. Well, now, sir, I don’t want to get mixed up in no fishy cases. If you remember what them two was saying to each other last night—”

“Open the note,” directed Mr. Sinnett.

“Just what I was thinking, sir. That’s why I wanted to see you, because you was there and know as much about it as I do. If there’s any risk, I don’t mean to be in it at all.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Sinnett. “Open the note and make sure.”

With a certain trembling eagerness, Mr. Sinnett watched Mr. Lock draw an envelope from his pocket.

“You can easily put it in a new envelope,” said Mr. Sinnett, as Mr. Lock began to stare perplexedly at the flap.

“I never thought of that,” said Mr. Lock, and at once tore open the missive. It was very short.

“_I am at 17_, _Somerset Terrace_, _Poplar_, _till to-morrow_. _Ten my boat sails_, _but letters there will be forwarded me_. _Keep to our bargain_. _Do not forget that I am prepared to pay a higher price than anyone else for it_.”

“Strange,” murmured Mr. Lock.

“Seventeen, Somerset Terrace, Poplar,” muttered Mr. Sinnett. “Seventeen, Somer—”

“Do you thing there’s anything in the address, sir?” asked Mr. Lock, curiously.

“If you take my advice,” said Mr. Sinnett, impressively, “you’ll burn that note and say no more about it.”

“I think that would be safest,” agreed Mr. Lock, and, striking a match, ignited the missive in the fire-place.

“Well, I must be going,” said Mr. Sinnett, coming to a sudden briskness; and, settling the score, he hastened away.

Five minutes later he was in the presence of Mr. Horace Dobb. Permission to glance round the stock had been met with suave and smiling acquiescence, and almost immediately Mr. Sinnett, with false calm, was inquiring the price of a small idol.

“That?” said Mr. Dobb. “Oh, I’d let you have that for twenty pounds. Genuine curiosity, that is, sir. I dare say it’s worth a lot more, but I want to make you a customer. Ah, that won’t be on my shelves long, for all I only bought it last night. Always getting inquiries for genuine foreign idols, I am. That’s the only one I’ve got in my shop at present. There’s a lot of connoshers of them things about.”

“Twenty pounds?” said Mr. Sinnett. “Why, man, I happen to know you only gave twelve for it!”

“Ah, I’d ’ave given more if ’e’d pressed me, but ’e seemed anxious to get rid of it. And, anyway, sir, I’d ’ave got twenty pounds easy enough for it yesterday afternoon, if I’d ’ad it. There was a Indian gentleman in ’ere hinquiring if by any chance I ’ad any hidols. Particular keen ’e seemed to get one just like that. ’E might ’ave been—”

“Fifteen pounds,” offered Mr. Sinnett.

And so it was; but even then, Mr. Dobb only yielded with professed reluctance to losing the chance of Mr. Sinnett as a regular patron thenceforward.

That same evening Mr. Clark, Mr. Tridge, and Mr. Lock foregathered in Mr. Dobb’s parlour.

“Yes, I see ’im go,” said Mr. Tridge. “’E’d got it in a portmanteau. Caught the two-twenty-one, ’e did. ’E’ll be in London by now. Can’t you fancy ’im getting more and more hexcited at that ’ouse, trying to hexplain to ’em that ’e wants to see a nigger they don’t know nothing about? And ’e’ll think they’re trying to deceive ’im, and ’e’ll tell ’em all the ’ole story, just to show ’e’s telling the truth, and—”

“Oh, ’e’ll be very hagitated,” said Mr. Clark. “’E’s that sort, I bet, when things goes sideways. Serve ’im right! Anyway, thanks for my share, ’Orace. I shall be able to do a bit of slate-cleaning with it. By the way, what haddress did you send ’im looking for, Peter?”

“Seventeen, Somerset Terrace, Poplar. ’Orace told me to write down any old address I happened to think of, didn’t you, ’Orace? And Seventeen, Somerset Terrace, come easiest to my mind. I don’t know where I got it from.”

“Seventeen, Somerset—” gasped Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark, simultaneously.

“That’s it.”

“Then I can tell you where you got it!” shouted Mr. Tridge. “You come and see me and Sam Clark there many a time while we was lodging there, when the old ‘Jane Gladys’ was being repaired that time.”

“Ah, of course, I remember now!” said Mr. Lock. “A nice, comfortable, homely place it was, too!”

“And you’ve sent Sinnett _there_ to start questioning and arguing and hexplaining?” roared Mr. Tridge. “Why, Sam and me ran up a bill for the ’ole six weeks we stopped there, and then we skipped off without paying. And _now_—”

_EPISODE X_ THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM

That rising man of affairs, Mr. Horace Dobb, was setting out on his afternoon stroll—which is relatively equivalent to saying that Beau Nash had just appeared in the Pump Room at Bath, or that the Prince Regent had issued forth to sun himself on the Steine at Brighthelmstone.

For, whatever drab limitations the keeping of a second-hand shop might impose upon Mr. Dobb’s wardrobe during the exigencies of the morning, the afternoon would almost invariably have the gratification of witnessing that gentleman’s apotheosis. Then Mr. Dobb who spent his mornings in dragging bulky things about in the remote dustiness of his outhouse, or in cajoling and brow-beating clients across the counter, was as different from the Mr. Dobb of the afternoon as is the lowly grub from the full-winged butterfly.

Mr. Dobb, because he deemed that he owed a fitting publicity to his occupation and to his own personality, had taken the hours which intervene between dinner and tea, and had incorporated them into a general scheme for his glorification. Other business men might permit the searching post-meridian sunshine to illuminate frayed cuffs and shiny elbows, to exhibit symptoms of haste and heedlessness upon waistcoat fronts, to reveal circumstantial evidence with regard to linen collars. Such negligence of apparel had ceased to be any part of Mr. Dobb’s policy.

Wherever the calls of his profession might lead him abroad after dinner, either to auction sales or to visits for private appraisement, to interviews for preliminary negotiation or merely to casual scoutings for opportunities of profit, Mr. Dobb’s aim was to appear fresh and impeccably groomed and, as far as possible, aristocratic. Careful study of toilet and deportment, he was convinced, must inevitably bring him the pleasing reputation of being a leader of fashion, and, furthermore, could not but impress people with the desirability of dealing with so distinguished a person when they had rickety sofas and deficient clocks and old ironmongery to sell.

And so Mr. Dobb was sauntering forth in all his accustomed splendour. Upon his sleekly anointed hair there rested a soft felt hat of exceeding plushiness, with a tuft of strange feathers thrust into its band to hint at sporting prowess. A very high and very stiff collar encircled Mr. Dobb’s throat, and upon a necktie of cheerful patterning there was pillowed a scarfpin conspicuously, like the headlight upon a locomotive. A shaggy tweed suit, of a hue which far o’erleapt snuff and only narrowly missed mustard, graced Mr. Dobb’s frame, and his feet were encased in orange-coloured boots of a squeakiness surely without parallel.

And when the eye had become inured to these glories, returning powers of vision brought apprehension of a silver-mounted cane, of a buttonhole of geranium blooms, of a cigar, and a festooning watch-chain, and of the phenomena of tan gloves, not worn on the hands, but carried carelessly, as though their presence were due to a merest afterthought on the part of lazy luxury.

And thus, as it were, glossed and burnished and intensified, Mr. Dobb progressed down Fore Street. One hand jauntily twirled the cane, the other hand not only had the distinction of flourishing the gloves in airy greeting of such neighbours as Mr. Dobb insisted should see him, but also was called on, from time to time, to assist in making great play with the cigar, a duty which it performed with many graceful twirls of the wrist.

And thus did Mr. Dobb arrive at the corner where Fore Street joins Bridge Street, and here he paused to gaze up and down the road. A fine sense of dominance permeated Mr. Dobb as he stood there, and the expression with which he viewed the amenities of the place was one nicely calculated to hover midway between languid interest and patrician disdain.

And then, as an ancient ewer may be rare and valuable ware in one moment and, in the next, be but so much broken crockery, so in a twinkling was Mr. Dobb transformed from a proud autocrat to a quaking fugitive.

Gone was all trace of hauteur from his face, vanished completely was all swaggering complacency of manner. There was a hunted look in his eyes, and he had become limp and drooping and manifestly unstable at the knees.

And the whole change had happened in that trice which is occupied by the clash of two pairs of eyes meeting each other in a glance of recognition across a narrow thoroughfare.

“’Strewth!” breathed Mr. Dobb, aghast, and made a convulsive, clutching movement towards his hat, but checked his arm halfway. “’Strewth!” he said again, but even more emphatically; and then spun round on his heel and began to retrace his way along Fore Street at a pace in marked contrast to his previous gait.

Regardless of the ill-concealed amazement of acquaintances, Mr. Dobb cantered wildly adown the pavement until he reached his abode, and here he breathlessly flung himself through the doorway, locking the portal behind him in a manner which clearly indicated panic. Mrs. Dobb, appearing in surprise from the back parlour, addressed a very natural question to her husband.

“Why—” he began, and then stopped and stared at his wife as though the situation had suddenly unfolded itself to exhibit a further cause for consternation.

And next he frenziedly unlocked the door and plucked the portal open, and plunged out again into the street. Glimpse of a figure in the distance served efficiently as spur, and Mr. Dobb raced wildly away in the opposite direction. Not until he had swerved round three successive corners did he feel emboldened to moderate his pace, and even then he travelled at something approximating a canter.

But at last he came to the region of the harbour, and reaching the “Flag and Pennant” shipway, he vigorously semaphored for the attendance of the ferryman stationed there. On his hasty arrival, that functionary found himself directed to take Mr. Dobb across the river with the utmost possible speed.

Mr. Samuel Clark, the ferryman, well used to the vagaries of his present patron and former shipmate of the “Jane Gladys,” made no immediate comment, but assisted his passenger into the boat and began to transport him with commendable energy. Mr. Dobb, removing his high collar and thrusting it into his pocket, made the noises of one narrowly saved from suffocation, and gazed fearfully over his shoulder at the receding river bank.

“I—I—I ain’t got the breath to hexplain now, Sam,” he puffed, presently. “Put me down over there by the ‘Red Lion,’ and then go back and make up a yarn. And get some one to take your place. And then go and fetch Peter Lock and Joe Tridge, and bring ’em over yonder to me at once.”

“Doings?” asked Mr. Clark, with the liveliest expectancy.

“Not ’alf!” was Mr. Dobb’s reply. “Not ’alf!” he said again; and shivered perceptibly.

In face of this discouraging reply, Mr. Clark had not the hardihood to press for more explicit information. Ever one to concede that there was a wrong time and a right time to appeal to Mr. Dobb’s confidence, the look on that gentleman’s face warned him that this was indubitably one of the wrong times.

In pondering silence, therefore, did the plump and ancient ferryman bend his best efforts to conveying Mr. Dobb to the further side of the harbour, and when this had been achieved, he immediately put about to accord loyal and unquestioning fulfilment to the remainder of Mr. Dobb’s instructions.

Well within the hour, Mr. Clark returned in convoy of Mr. Tridge and Mr. Lock, and the three entered the presence of Mr. Dobb in the otherwise vacant tap-room of the “Red Lion.”

Mr. Dobb had recovered some meed of his composure in the interval, but the rosiness of complexion induced by violent exercise had now faded to an ascetic pallor, and his eyes looked up dully from deep and dark circles. Evidence of his mental state was afforded by the fact that he was sitting on his ornate hat.

“Lummy, ’Orace, you _do_ look upset!” observed Mr. Tridge, in concern.

“He looks real downright bad,” asserted Mr. Lock.

“’E looks ’orrible,” was Mr. Clark’s contribution.

Mr. Dobb, gazing with lack-lustre eyes from one to the other of his old shipmates, shook his head forlornly and gave vent to a sigh of extraordinary duration.

“Why, ’e looks as if ’e’d seen a ghost,” declared Mr. Tridge.

“I ’ave,” said Mr. Dobb; “that’s just what I ’ave seen. A ghost—a real live ghost!”

Mr. Tridge threw a startled glance at the empty tumbler standing before Mr. Dobb.

“No, it ain’t that,” said Mr. Dobb, comprehending. “That is only the third I’ve ’ad all day. It’s a real ghost I’ve seen. A ghost from out of the past,” he ended, with a fugitive gleam of pride in the quality of this phrase.

Mr. Lock, his head a little on one side, speculatively scrutinized this beholder of visions. Mr. Tridge and Mr. Lock stared at each other in a baffled way, and privately intimated a mutual disbelief in the sanity of their friend.

“Boys,” said Mr. Dobb, “she’s ’ere.”

“Which she?” cried Mr. Tridge, not without perturbation.

“’Oo do you _think_?” dallied Mr. Dobb.

“Not—not that widder woman from Teignmouth, that Mrs. Larstick?” queried Mr. Clark, shakily. “Not _’er_? That I do ’ope. Don’t say it’s ’er?” he begged.

“N-n-n-nor y-y-y-yet th-th-th-that—” stammered Mr. Tridge, clearly lacking full control of his jaw.

“Why the dooce don’t you say straight out, ’Orace?” asked Mr. Lock.

Mr. Dobb swallowed convulsively and steadied himself by taking a firm grip on the arms of his chair.

“It’s—it’s Looie Radling,” he announced.

“Oh, _’er_!” said Mr. Tridge, swiftly reassured. “Nice little bit of goods, too.”

“Werry nice,” agreed Mr. Clark, in equal relief. “It’ll be a pleasure to meet ’er again.”

Mr. Lock, smiling, readjusted the set of his necktie.

“But—but ’ave you forgot?” asked Mr. Dobb, incredulously. “Talking like that! ’Ave you forgot or what?”

“Forgot what?” returned Mr. Tridge.

“Why,” Mr. Dobb replied, wretchedly, “I’m hengaged to that gal?”

“But ’ow can you be, ’Orace?” very reasonably contended Mr. Clark. “You’re married to your missis, and she’s a very ’ealthy-looking lady.”

“I married my missis a bit sudden, about eight months ago, as you may remember,” said Mr. Dobb.

“Oh, well, it wasn’t in reason you could afford to miss the chance of owning a nice little shop like ’ers,” pointed out Mr. Tridge, extenuatingly.

“Quite so,” acquiesced Mr. Dobb. “Only—only I ’appened by chance to be hengaged to Looie Radling at the time. I’d been hengaged to ’er two months and more when I first met my missis.”

“And stayed be’ind and got married to ’er by special licence and took up life ashore, while us other chaps went on in the ‘Jane Gladys’ the last month afore she was sold,” recalled Mr. Tridge. “I remember now.”

“Ah, I seem to remember something about you being engaged to a Miss Radling,” admitted Mr. Lock. “Greenwich gal, ain’t she?”

“Yes; and I remember ’er coming down to the boat to meet you the first time we went back there, and you wasn’t with us no longer. Very surprised but quite the lady she was,” said Mr. Clark. “We told ’er you’d deserted or something.”

“Anyway, she’s tracked me down now,” said Mr. Dobb; and made fretful gestures and noises for a while.

“Oh, well, you’re married now, and there’s an end of it,” remarked Mr. Tridge, soothingly.

“That’s just where you’re wrong,” complained Mr. Dobb. “Now Looie Radling’s found me out there won’t be a end to it. It’ll be the start, not the end.”

“Breach o’ promise!” cried Mr. Tridge. “Of course, I ’adn’t thought of that.”

“’As she got any of your letters, though?” asked Mr. Clark, acutely.

“’Undreds!” groaned Mr. Dobb.

“She won’t half get some damages out of you,” prophesied Mr. Lock, cheerfully. “Having a business of your own now, and doing so well, they’ll award her a real big sum. Three or four ’undred, I dare say,” he hazarded, yawning carelessly.

“What?” screamed Mr. Dobb, in consternation. “Why, I can’t lay ’ands on a quarter of that!”

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” agreed Mr. Lock. “But then I ain’t the judge and jury. They won’t believe you in court, you being so well known in Shore’aven. You’ll have to sell up your business and go back to sea, and pay her the damages in instalments. Long, long years ahead from now you’ll still be scraping together to pay her—”

“Oh, shut up!” bellowed Mr. Dobb, rendered almost hysterical by contemplation of so doleful a prospect.

“Did she see you in _them_ clothes, ’Orace?” asked Mr. Tridge. “Well, then, that’s done it! She’ll be after you like a porous-plaster for them damages. Gals don’t get the chance of marrying himitation dooks every day,” he went on, a little maliciously. “And when they ’ave the chance and loses it—”

“Yes, if only she’d seen you in your shirt-sleeves and your old trowsis,” put in Mr. Clark, “very likely she’d only ’ave thought ‘good riddance to bad rubbish,’ and thought no more about you.”

“Ah, and that ain’t all, neither,” said Mr. Dobb, miserably. “What’s going to ’appen when my missis ’ears about it? I shan’t ever ’ear the last of it! If them two females was to meet—”

“There’s men in your position ’ave drownded themselves, ’Orace,” remarked Mr. Tridge, tonelessly.

“That’s about the only way out of it that I can see,” observed Mr. Lock, with brutal frankness.

“I never did trust women!” vehemently cried aloud Mr. Dobb. “Never!”

“The great thing, I should say,” mentioned Mr. Lock, “is to keep from kicking and struggling. Just keep quiet, and when you go down for the third time it’ll be all over. I’ve heard say that it’s really rather a pleasant feeling, once you get over your mouth being full of water.”

Mr. Dobb, setting his palms on his knees, turned and stared coldly at Mr. Lock.

“Ah, I shall always remember how you’re looking at me, ’Orace,” said Mr. Lock, gently. “Sort of sad and mournful.”

“I suppose,” vouchsafed Mr. Clark, thoughtfully—“I suppose as you can’t prove a hallybee, ’Orace? I done that once, and it come off all right, and we had the goose that very same night for supper.”

“Something could be done,” said Mr. Tridge. “I’m sure it could. Only, of course, it’s ’ard thinking when you’re thirsty.”

“You think away! I’ll see you ain’t thirsty!” eagerly promised Mr. Dobb; and forthwith gave orders which appreciably increased sympathy for him in his tribulation.

“To begin with, you’re sure she recognized you, ’Orace?” pressed Mr. Tridge.

“I see ’er regular jump at sight of me,” asserted Mr. Dobb.

“P’r’aps,” suggested Mr. Clark, “it was your clothes she saw.”

“Next thing,” continued Mr. Tridge, “what makes you think she’s tracked you down special? It may be the biggest haccident ’er being ’ere and coming across you.”

“Why, she may ’ave forgotten you,” put forward Mr. Clark. “After all, it’s eight months and more since you saw her last.”

“Perhaps she’s got married, too,” said Mr. Lock, hopefully.

“Well, there, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Mr. Dobb, brightening. “Bit fickle it would be, though, wouldn’t it?” he went on in accents slightly flavoured with disapproval.

“Seems to me,” said Mr. Lock, “the best thing would be to find out just how the land lies. You’re a pretty good hand at that sort of thing, Sam. Suppose you was to go over and look about, and see if you could see her and have a little chat with her?”

“That’s it, Sam! You’ve got a nacheral gift of tact!” fawned Mr. Dobb. “You cut on back over to the town, and see if you can find ’er and learn what’s in the wind.”

“Right you are!” acquiesced Mr. Clark, very readily. “I shall want a couple of bob to stand ’er a cup of tea and so forth, though. You can only get women really chatty when they’re drinking tea. Better make it ’alf a crown, ’Orace, in case she fancies a bun or whatnot.”

A vivid light is thrown on the state of Mr. Dobb’s mind when it is mentioned that, with no more demur than a sigh and a shake of the head, he dropped two shillings into Mr. Clark’s extended palm, and silently added two threepenny pieces when that gentleman did not move at once.

“I’ll be as quick as ever I can,” promised Mr. Clark, in going. “’Ere,” he sternly warned Mr. Dobb, “don’t you go a-doing anything rash while I’m away, and give me all me trouble for nothing! Wait till I come back, at any rate!”

The envoy departed, and a couple of hours passed before his friends saw him again. Meanwhile, Mr. Tridge and Mr. Lock had devoted the interval to the benevolent purpose of cheering up Mr. Dobb, and so successful had they been that Mr. Clark, on his return, stood awhile at the threshold of the “Red Lion” tap-room to listen in amazement to the careless mirth within.

For Mr. Dobb, fully persuaded by his companions that the encounter with Miss Radling did not necessarily presage evil, had become even more eloquent than they in voicing the folly of meeting trouble half-way. And now, drawing equally on reminiscence and invention, the three were exchanging diverting anecdotes concerning occasions when alarm had proved groundless. Mr. Tridge had just concluded a droll story about a cheese in a sack, a policeman, a runaway horse, and himself, and Mr. Dobb and Mr. Lock were chuckling very heartily at the dénouement, when Mr. Clark thrust open the door of the tap-room.

“That’s right, ’Orace!” he observed, significantly. “You laugh while you can!”

At these ill-omened words, the merriment faded abruptly, and Mr. Dobb was distinctly heard to groan.

“I’ve seed ’er,” announced Mr. Clark; and advancing, patted Mr. Dobb thrice on the shoulder, very slowly, and solemnly.

“Well, then,” hotly cried Mr. Tridge, with due understanding of this action, “she’s a mink! That’s what she is—a mink!”

“You take my advice, ’Orace,” recommended Mr. Clark. “Hostralia!”

There was a little wait while the quailing Mr. Dobb was sorrowfully regarded by his three friends, as though even now they were bidding him farewell on his departure to the Antipodes. Mr. Dobb gazed back, horror-struck, at each of his three companions in turn, and when his glance rested upon Mr. Lock, that gentleman rose and shook hands with him with a long and lingering clasp. And then Mr. Dobb shakily emptied each of the glasses on the table before him, and no one had the hardness of heart to bid him nay.

And next, Mr. Clark proceeded to narrate his interview with Miss Radling. He had found her, it transpired, in the High Street, and had at length managed to recall himself to her memory, a task which had been rendered a little protracted by the fact that Miss Radling gave but superficial attention to him at first, being more zealously employed in taking close heed of the faces of all male passers-by.

When, however, Miss Radling had recognized Mr. Clark as an old acquaintance of the “Jane Gladys” she had expressed the keenest satisfaction in meeting him, and had at once asked for the address of Mr. Horace Dobb.

Mr. Clark immediately professed ignorance of Mr. Dobb’s whereabouts, but pretended to a vague belief that the late cook of the “Jane Gladys” was now somewhere in Scotland. Miss Radling promptly controverted this, stating with complete certainty that she had herself seen Mr. Dobb in Shorehaven during that very afternoon. She had also added, with sinister vehemence, that she intended to see Mr. Dobb again and again before she had finished with him.

“But—but—but what for?” interposed the miserable Mr. Dobb.

“Just what I says to her,” responded Mr. Clark. “‘What for?’ I says. And she says as ’ow you was hengaged to ’er, and you ’adn’t wrote ’er a line for months. ‘Though,’ she says, ‘the letters ’e wrote me before that is quite enough to do the trick. I’ve kept ’em all,’ she says, ‘and I’m going to get even with ’im some’ow. Either ’e’s got to put the banns up or else I goes to the best lawyer in Shore’aven. I’ve found out, by chance, that ’Orace Dobb is living in these parts, and,’ says she—”

“Now, ’ow the dooce did she find that out?” questioned Mr. Tridge, wrathfully.

“Wasn’t the ‘Raven’ in ’arbour here a fortnight or so after you settled into your shop, ’Orace?” put forward Mr. Lock.

“It was!” bellowed Mr. Dobb. “Well, there’s a nasty, low, mean, under’and, sneaking trick to—”

“Anyway,” said Mr. Clark, “she ’asn’t got your correct address. She said she’d been looking all over the town for a shop with Dobb on it. And nacherally I didn’t tell ’er that the board still showed your wife’s name of Goffley. And she didn’t know that you’re married yet, neither.”

“Can’t you just see them ‘Raven’ chaps a-grinning when they fixed all this up for me?” growled Mr. Dobb.

“Did she seem sort of forgiving at all, Sam?” asked Mr. Lock.

“Oh, dear me, no!” returned Mr. Clark. “Quite the contrary, in fact. You oughter seen the way she folded ’er lips. A nice-spoken, pleasant-looking, ladylike gal like that, too! I was surprised ’ow sharp and determined she could be.”

And now Mr. Clark, with considerable pride in his diplomacy, proceeded to speak of the clever foundations he had laid for an alibi. Insisting that Mr. Dobb was not within a hundred miles of Shorehaven, he had admitted to Miss Radling that the remaining members of the “Jane Gladys” crew now resided in the town. This, he suggested to her, might explain matters. Confusion of identity, he had reminded her, was of frequent occurrence among the mercantile marine.

“‘But I see ’Orace with my very own eyes,’ she says, and goes on to describe the very clothes you’re wearing, ’Orace,” continued Mr. Clark. “‘Why,’ says I, ‘that just shows ’ow wrong you are! Them clothes is the clothes worn by Peter Lock on ’igh days and ’olidays,’ I says.”

Mr. Lock uttered an exclamation denoting surprise.

“Well, I chose you because you was always the dressy one on the ‘Jane Gladys,’ Peter,” explained Mr. Clark. “‘That there’s Peter Lock in ’is Sunday clothes you saw,’ I tells ’er, ‘and you mistook ’im for ’Orace Dobb. You’ve forgot what ’Orace looked like, and Peter Lock ’aving been on the ‘Jane Gladys,’ to your knowledge—”

“That’s it, that’s it?” approved Mr. Dobb. “I’ll lend you these ’ere clothes, Peter, for a hour or two, if you takes care of ’em, and you can meet ’er in them and prove old Sam was right.”

“Anyway, you can _try_ to,” said Mr. Clark, soberly. “I must say she didn’t look altogether convinced, as it might be.”

But Mr. Dobb, already excitedly divesting himself of his coat and waistcoat was paying no heed. And Mr. Lock, delicately massaging the nape of his neck with a forefinger, was immersed in thought.

“Wait a bit!” he requested, coldly, at last. “Seems to me, if I don’t help you now, ’Orace, you’re in a tight corner?”

“Ah, I’m lucky to ’ave a true friend like you, Peter!” babbled Mr. Dobb. “Wonder if they’ve got a outhouse they can lend us for a few minutes?”

“And you’ve got a motto, too, ain’t you, ’Orace?” went on Mr. Lock, in steely accents. “‘Strictly business’—that’s what has been your motto ever since you went into your shop, ain’t it? Oh, you’ve drove it home to us often enough when it’s been convenient to you and ill-convenient to us. Well, my motto’s going to be ‘strictly business’ now!” he ended, firmly.

“Meaning?” invited Mr. Dobb, ceasing to struggle with a bootlace.

“Meaning I don’t borrer clothes from nobody to help ’em out of trouble. See? If you want me to help you, you’ve got to give me that rig-out. See? Otherwise I shouldn’t dream of putting it on for a single moment.”

Mr. Dobb agitatedly stigmatized this as blackmail and robbery, and Mr. Lock quite unemotionally agreed with him in this view, but declined to be affected by it. Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark, with eyes that glistened admiringly on Mr. Lock, said that, to them, it seemed a very fair bargain.

Ten minutes later Mr. Dobb and Mr. Lock made an exchange of vesture in an outhouse. Mr. Dobb somewhat huffily declined to agree with Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark in their openly expressed opinion that Mr. Lock looked a real toff in the hirsute garments.

“I’ll stroll along with Peter and ’ave a look for Miss Radling,” said Mr. Tridge, as the quartet took their places in the ferry-boat. “I’ll be able to back him up by saying you don’t live anywhere in these parts. As for you, you’d better stay at ’ome while she’s in the town, ’Orace.”

“Stay at ’ome? I’m going straight to bed,” declared Mr. Dobb, “and I ain’t coming down again till the coast is quite clear, neither!”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Tridge. “You leave it to me and Peter. We’ll convince ’er all right.”

That same evening Mr. Dobb lay fretfully in bed, suffering from a vague ailment which, he averred, was not serious enough to demand a doctor, but too serious to permit of Mrs. Dobb’s ministrations as a nurse. In these circumstances, two visitors who called to see Mr. Dobb were about to be sent away by his wife, when Mr. Dobb, who happened to be standing at his open bedroom door, gave orders that they should ascend to his apartment.

“Well,” he asked, breathlessly, as Mr. Tridge and Mr. Lock entered, “’ave you convinced ’er? Is she gone?”

“No, she ain’t,” said Mr. Tridge, regretfully. “She’s looking for a situation in the town. And, do you know, I don’t believe she quite took in what we told ’er about mistaking Peter for you. I believe she’s sharper than we think.”

“But you’ve _got_ to make ’er believe it!” wrathfully snapped Mr. Dobb.

“I doubt if she’s the sort you can _make_ do anything,” said Mr. Lock.

“A most determined young person,” said Mr. Tridge. “When she makes up ’er mind, I should say—”

“She ain’t half bitter against you, ’Orace,” remarked Mr. Lock. “You ought to hear the things she said about you! What was that bit she told us about the bag of sweets, Joe?”

“I don’t want to ’ear about sweets!” exclaimed Mr. Dobb, impatiently. “I want to ’ear about ’er plans!”

“Well, she _said_ she was going to try for two ’undred and fifty,” replied Mr. Tridge. “Soon as ever she knew where to find you, she said, she was coming round to—”

Mr. Dobb, in an excess of nervous depression, dived beneath the bedclothes, moaning faintly.

“This I will say,” maintained Mr. Lock. “Them chaps on the ‘Raven’ have gone a bit beyond a joke this time. Well, so-long, ’Orace! Keep smiling!”

“We’ll do our best for you,” promised Mr. Tridge. “We’ll keep on telling ’er she was mistook this afternoon.”

“You keep on letting ’er see you in them clothes, Peter, till she sees she’s wrong,” directed Mr. Dobb, reappearing.

“I’m going to meet her to-morrow afternoon in them,” replied Mr. Lock. “I’m going to help her look for you.”

“’Ere!” croaked Mr. Dobb, in alarm; and then, at sight of Mr. Lock’s humorous eyelid, he smiled wanly. “You’re a artful one, Peter!” he stated.

“I am!” agreed Mr. Lock; and followed Mr. Tridge down the stairs.

Next evening, when Mr. Lock again called to report progress, Mr. Dobb was still clinging to the sanctuary of bed.

“Well, you ain’t found me yet, then?” he asked, with effort to be cheerful.

“Not yet,” admitted Mr. Lock, grinning. “We’ve been looking all over the place for you, too!”

“Ain’t she losing ’eart yet?”

“I can’t say she is,” returned Mr. Lock, sorrowfully. “It only seems to make ’er firmer in mind. If you only knew how the soles of my feet was aching!”

“She still thinks I’m about, eh?”

“She’s sure of it. She says she ain’t going to give up looking for you till she’s found you, if it takes ten years!”

“There’s hobstinicy!” growled Mr. Dobb, dashed.

“One thing, she ain’t going to find you as long as I’m helping her to look,” said Mr. Lock. “So it’ll be a long job, anyway.”

“Thank you for nothing! I suppose you fancies yourself, walking about in all them la-de-da clothes with a attractive young female?” harshly suggested Mr. Dobb.

“I do,” said Mr. Lock.

“I—I wonder, Peter,” remarked Mr. Dobb, sitting up suddenly and striving to sound casual—“I wonder you don’t take up with ’er yourself!”

“Can’t afford it, for one thing,” said Mr. Lock, quietly.

“Walking about in a suit of clothes you’ve ’ad give to you don’t cost much,” contended Mr. Dobb.

“Ah, but you can’t set up a home on a suit of clothes!” pointed out Mr. Lock, regretfully; and then he laughed quite merrily. “Why, I hardly know the young lady, either!”

“A nice, pretty, well-spoken girl she is, too!” said Mr. Dobb. “Make any man a good wife, she would. I tell you straight, if I wasn’t married—”

“I must say, I can’t make out how you had the heart to do it, ’Orace,” observed Mr. Lock.

“Neither can I, now! Serves me right! I—I couldn’t ever be really worthy of ’er. A nice, smart, good-looking young fellow, that’s ’oo she deserves for a ’usband. A young fellow just like you, Peter,” he ended softly.

“Me? Oh, I dunno!” murmured Mr. Lock, in confused modesty.

“Well, I do!” cried Mr. Dobb. “You take my advice, my boy, and go in and win!”

“And leave everything nice and clear for you, eh?” asked Mr. Lock.

“I—I wasn’t thinking about myself,” said Mr. Dobb. “I ain’t so selfish as all that, Peter.”

“Anyway, what’s the good of talking?” demanded Mr. Lock, irritably. “I can’t afford to set up house-keeping. Where am I to get the furniture from for a start off?”

“Why, you can run up a bill with me!” quickly proffered Mr. Dobb.

“That ain’t my idea, starting married life in debt.”

“Well, I—I might give you a few things as a wedding present. Jugs and so on.”

“Mind you, I wouldn’t mind taking up with her,” said Mr. Lock. “Looie-Miss Radling—she’s just my sort, and I don’t mind admitting that I’ve thought a lot about her since I met her yesterday. But—”

“And—and to think that you was a ’ardy British mariner once!” urgently cried Mr. Dobb. “You go in and win!”

“I reckon it’ll cost me all of fifty quid to set up a home,” said Mr. Lock, gazing squarely at Mr. Dobb. For a long time Mr. Dobb defiantly held Mr. Lock’s regard, and then he glanced away.

“And, after all,” added Mr. Lock, softly, “it’ll come cheaper for _you_, ’Orace.”

“I see what you’re after!” rasped Mr. Dobb. “Call that friendship?”

“No,” said Mr. Lock, honestly, “I don’t! I’m a sort of pupil of yours, ’Orace, and I calls it ‘strictly business’! However, we were _only talking_, after all. Good-night, old sport, and sleep well!”

Two days elapsed. Mr. Dobb, attaining sufficient convalescence, had left his couch and spent most of his time behind his window curtain, watching the traffic of the street in considerable trepidation. And whenever the shop-bell jangled Mr. Dobb crept silently to the head of the stairs and stood there to listen with bated breath till persuaded that there was no cause for alarm.

Mr. Lock had not visited him once during those two days, and the only news he had derived of that gentleman was from Mr. Tridge, who, paying a brief visit, let fall the information that Mr. Lock and Miss Radling had been observed together at a matinée performance at the local kinema theatre.