CONTENTS.

BOOK I.
UNCLE BENJAMIN.
(Mary Blyth Tells the Story.)

I.—Firandolo’s

II.—Locked Out

III.—The Doll

IV.—An Interview with Mr. Slaughter

V.—The Missionary’s Letter

VI.—Sole Residuary Legatee

VII.—Entering into Possession

VIII.—The Back-door Key

BOOK II.
84, CAMFORD STREET.
(The Facts of the Case According to Emily Purvis.)

IX.—Max Lander

X.—Between 13 and 14, Rosemary Street

XI.—One Way In

XII.—The Shutting of a Door

XIII.—A Vision of the Night

XIV.—Susie

XV.—An Ultimatum

XVI.—The Noise which Came from the Passage

BOOK III.
THE GOD OF FORTUNE.
(Mr. Frank Paine Tells the Story of his Association with the Testamentary Dispositions of Mr. Benjamin Batters.)

XVII.—The Affair of the Freak

XVIII.—Counsel’s Opinion

XIX.—The Reticence of Captain Lander

XX.—My Client: and Her Friend

XXI.—The Agitation of Miss Purvis

XXII.—Luke

XXIII.—The Trio Return

XXIV.—The God Out of the Machine

BOOK IV.
THE JOSS.
(Captain Max Lander Sets Forth the Curious Adventure which Marked the Voyage of “The Flying Scud.”)

XXV.—Luke’s Suggestion

XXVI.—The Throne in the Centre

XXVII.—The Offerings of the Faithful

XXVIII.—The Joss Reverts

XXIX.—The Father—and His Child

XXX.—The Morning’s News

XXXI.—The Termination of the Voyage of the “Flying Scud”

XXXII.—The Little Discussion Between the Several Parties

XXXIII.—In the Presence

BOOK V.
AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT.

XXXIV.—How Matters Stand To-day

THE JOSS: A REVERSION.

BOOK I.
UNCLE BENJAMIN.

(MARY BLYTH TELLS THE STORY.)

CHAPTER I.
FIRANDOLO’S.

I had had an aggravating day. In everything luck had been against me. I had got down late, and been fined for that. Then when I went into the shop I found I had forgotten my cuffs, and Mr. Broadley, who walks the fancy department, marked me sixpence for that. Just as I was expecting my call for dinner an old lady came in who kept me fussing about till my set came up—and only spent three and two-three after all; so when I did go down alone there was nothing left; and what was left was worse than cold. Though I was as hungry as I very well could be I could scarcely swallow as much as a mouthful; lukewarm boiled mutton cased in solidified fat is not what I care for. Directly after I came up, feeling hungrier than ever, Miss Patten did me out of the sale of a lot of sequin trimming on which there was a ninepenny spiff. I was showing it to a customer, and before I had had half a chance she came and took it clean out of my hands, and sold it right away. It made me crosser than ever. To crown it all, I missed three sales. One lady wanted a veil, and because we had not just the sort she wanted, when she walked out of the shop Mr. Broadley seemed to think it was my fault. He said he would mark me. When some people want a triangular spot you cannot put them off with a round one. It is no use your saying you can. And so I as good as told him.

Not twenty minutes afterwards a girl came in—a mere chit—who wanted some passementerie, beaded. She had brought a pattern. Somehow directly I saw it I thought there would be trouble. I hunted through the stock and found the thing exactly, only there were blue beads where there ought to have been green. As there were a dozen different coloured beads it did not really matter, especially as ours were a green blue, and hers were a blue green. But that chit would not see it. She would not admit that it was a match. When I called Mr. Broadley, and he pointed out to her that the two were so much alike that, at a little distance, you could not tell one from the other, she was quite short. She caught up her old pattern and took herself away. Then Mr. Broadley gave it to me hot. He reminded me that that was two sales I had missed, and that three, on one day, meant dismissal. I did not suppose they would go so far as that, but I did expect that, if I missed again, it would cost me half-a-crown, at least. So, of course, there was I, as it were, on tenterhooks, resolved that rather than I would let anyone else go without a purchase I would force some elevenpence three-farthing thing on her; if I had to pay for it myself. And there was Mr. Broadley hanging about just by my stand, watching me so that I felt I should like to stick my scissors into him.

But I was doomed to be done. Luck was clean against me. Just as we were getting ready to close in came an old woman—one of your red-faced sort, with her bonnet a little on one side of her head. She wanted some torchon lace. Now, strictly speaking, lace is not in my department, but as we are all supposed to serve through, and most of the others were engaged—it is extraordinary how, some nights, people will crowd into the shop just as we are getting ready to close—Mr. Broadley planted her on me. She was a nice old party. She did not know herself what she wanted, but seemed to think I ought to. So far as I could make out, what she really did want was a four shilling lace at fourpence—which we could not exactly supply. At last I called Mr. Broadley to see if he could make her out. On which she actually turned huffy, and declaring that I would not take the trouble to show her anything at all, in spite of all that we could do or say, she marched straight out. Then I had a wigging. Broadley let himself go, before them all. I could have cried—and almost did.

I was three-quarters of an hour late before I got into the street. Emily Purvis was tired of waiting, and Tom Cooper was in a red-hot rage.

“My dear,” began Emily, directly she saw me, “I hope you haven’t hurried. We’re only frozen to the bone.”

“That’s all right,” said Tom. “It’s just the sort of night to hang about this confounded corner.”

It was disagreeable weather. There was a nasty east wind, which seemed to cut right into one, and the pavements were wet and slimy. It all seemed of a piece. I knew Tom’s overcoat was not too thick, nor Emily’s jacket too warm either. When I saw Tom dancing about to keep himself warm, all at once something seemed to go over me, and I had to cry. Then there was a pretty fuss.

“Polly!” exclaimed Emily. “Whatever is the matter with you now?”

And there, in the open street, Tom put his arm about my waist. I told them all about it. You should have heard how they went on at Broadley. It did me good to listen, though I knew it would make no difference to him. They had not had the best of luck either. It seemed that it had been one of those days on which everything goes wrong with everyone. Emily had not got one single spiff, and Tom had had a quarrel with young Clarkson, who had called him Ginger to his face—and the colour of his hair is a frightfully delicate point with Tom. Tom had threatened to punch his head when they went upstairs. I begged and prayed him not to, but there was a gloomy air about him which showed that he would have to do something to relieve his feelings. I felt that punching young Clarkson’s head might do him good—and Clarkson no particular harm.

I do not think that either of us was particularly happy. The streets were nearly deserted. It was bitterly cold. Every now and then a splash of rain was driven into our faces.

“This is, for us, the age of romance,” declared Emily. “You mightn’t think so, but it is. At our age, the world should be alive with romance. We should be steeped in its atmosphere; drink it in with every breath. It should colour both our sleeping and our waking hours. And, instead of that, here we are shivering in this filthy horrid street.”

That was the way she was fond of talking. She was a very clever girl, was Emily, and could use big words more easily than I could little ones. She would have it that romance was the only thing worth living for, and that, as there is no romance in the world to-day, it is not worth while one’s living. I could not quite make out her argument, but that was what it came to so far as I could understand. I wished myself that there was a little more fun about. I was tired of the drapery.

“Shivering!” said Tom. “I’m not only shivering; I’m hungry too. Boiled mutton days I always am.”

“Hungry!” I cried. “I’m starving. I’ve had no dinner or tea, and I’m ready to drop.”

“No! You don’t mean that?”

I did mean it, and so I told him. What with having had nothing to eat, and being tired, and worried, and cold, it was all I could do to drag one foot after another. I just felt as if I was going to be ill. I could have kept on crying all the time.

“Have either of you got any money?” asked Tom. Neither Emily nor I had a penny. “Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do; we’ll all three of us go into Firandolo’s, and I’ll stand Sam.”

I knew he had only enough money to take him home on Sunday, because he had told me so himself the day before. Cardew & Slaughter’s is not the sort of place where they encourage you to spend Sunday in. He had been in last Sunday; and to stop in two Sundays running was to get yourself disliked; I have spent many a Sunday, loitering about the parks and the streets, living on a couple of buns, rather than go in to what they called dinner. And I knew that if we once set foot in Firandolo’s we should spend all he had. Yet I was so faint and hungry that I did not want much pressing. I could not find it in my heart to refuse.

Firandolo’s is something like a restaurant. Including vegetables, and sweets, and cheese, I have counted sixty-seven dishes on the bill of fare at one time, so that you have plenty of choice. For a shilling you can get a perfectly splendid dinner. And for sixpence you can get soup, and bread and cheese and butter; and they bring you the soup in a silver basin which is full to the brim.

At night it is generally crowded, but it was perhaps because the weather was so bad that there were only a few persons in the place when we went in. Directly after we entered someone else came in. He was a big man, and wore a reefer coat and a bowler hat. Seating himself at a table immediately opposite ours, taking off his hat, he wiped his forehead with an old bandanna handkerchief; though what there was to make him warm on a night like that was more than I could say. He had a fringe of iron-grey hair all round his head on a level with his ears. It stood out stiffly, like a sort of crown. Above and below it he was bald. He wore a bristly moustache, and his eyes were almost hidden by the bushiest eyebrows I had ever seen. I could not help noticing him, because I had a kind of fancy that he had been following us for some time. Unless I was mistaken he had passed me just as I had come out of Cardew & Slaughter’s; and ever since, whenever I looked round, I saw him somewhere behind us, as if he were keeping us in sight. I said nothing about it to the others, but I wondered, all the same. I did not like his looks at all. He seemed to me to be both sly and impudent; and though he pretended not to be watching us, I do not believe he took his eyes off us for a single moment.

I do not know what he had; he took a long time in choosing it, whatever it was. We had soup. It was lovely. Hot and tasty; just the very thing I wanted. It made me feel simply pounds better. But, after we had finished, something dreadful happened. The bill came altogether to one and three; we each of us had an extra bread. Tom felt in his pocket for the money. First in one, then in another. Emily and I soon saw that something was wrong, because he felt in every pocket he had. And he looked so queer.

“This is a bit of all right!” he gasped, just as we were beginning to wonder if he was all pockets. “Blessed if I have a single copper on me. I remember now that I left it in my box, so that I shouldn’t spend it.”

He looked at us, and we looked at him, and the waiter stood close by, looking at us all. And behind him was the proprietor, also with an observant eye. Emily and I were dumbfounded. Tom seemed as if he had not another word to say. Just as the proprietor was beginning to come closer, the stranger who had been following us got up and came to us across the room, all the time keeping his eyes on me.

“Pardon me if I take a liberty, but might I ask if I’m speaking to Miss Blyth?”

An odd voice he had; as if he were endeavouring to overcome its natural huskiness by speaking in a whisper. Of course my name is Blyth, and so I told him. But who he was I did not know from Adam. I certainly had never set eyes on him before. He explained, in a fashion; though his explanation came to nothing, after all.

“I knew a—a relative of yours. A pal, he was, of mine; great pals was him and me. So I naturally take an interest in a relative of his.” He turned to Tom. “If so be, sir, as you’ve left your purse at home, which is a kind of accident which might happen to any gentleman at any time, perhaps I might be allowed to pay your little bill.”

Tom had to allow him, though he liked it no more than I did. But we none of us wanted to be sent to prison for obtaining soup on false pretences, which I have been given to understand might have happened. Though, for my part, I would almost as soon have done that as be beholden to that big, bald-headed creature, who spoke as if he had lost his voice, and was doing all he knew to find it. When he had paid the one and three, and what were Tom’s feelings at seeing him do it was more than I could think, because I know his pride, the stranger came out with something else.

“And now, ladies, might I offer you a little something on my own. What do you say to a dozen oysters each, and a bottle of champagne? I believe they’re things ladies are fond of.”

He smiled—such a smile. It sounded tempting. I had never tasted oysters and champagne; though, of course, I had read of them in books, heaps of times. And it is my opinion that Emily would have said yes, if I had given her a chance. But not me. I stood up directly.

“Thank you; but I never touch oysters and champagne—at this time of night.”

“Might I—might I be allowed to offer a little something else. A Welsh rarebit, shall we say?”

Now, as it happens, a Welsh rarebit is a thing that I am fond of, especially when eaten with a glass of stout. I was still hungry, and my mouth watered at the prospect of some real nice, hot toasted cheese. It needed some resolution to decline. But I did. Hungry as I was, I felt as if I had had more than enough of him already.

“I am obliged to you, but I want nothing else. I have had all that I require.”

It was not true; but it seemed to me that it was a case in which truth would not exactly meet the situation. The stranger came close to me, actually whispering in my ear.

“May I hope, Miss Blyth, that you’ll remember me when—when you want a friend?”

I was as stand-offish as I could be.

“I don’t see how I can remember you when I don’t even know your name.”

He spoke to me across the back of his hand.

“My name is Rudd—Isaac Rudd; known to my friends, of whom, the Lord be praised, I’ve many, as Covey. It’s a—a term of endearment, so to speak, Miss Blyth.”

That anyone could apply a term of endearment to such a man as he seemed to be, was more than I believed to be possible.

“If you will let me take your address, Mr. Rudd, I will see that you have your one and three.”

“My address? Ah! Now there you have me. I don’t happen to have an—an address just now. In fact, I’m—I’m moving.”

We were going towards the door. I was beginning to fear that he intended to accompany us home. Nor did I see how we could prevent him, since he was at liberty to take such measures as he chose which would ensure the return of the money he had paid for us. But, as we drew near the entrance, he started back; and his demeanour changed in the most extraordinary way.

“Good-night,” he stammered, retreating farther and farther from us. “Don’t—don’t let me keep you, not—not for another moment.”

We went out. Directly we were in the open air Tom drew a long breath.

“Geewhillikins! A nice scrape I nearly got you in, and myself as well. A pretty hole we should have been in if that fellow hadn’t turned up in the very nick of time. He’s the sort I call a friend in need with a vengeance.”

Emily struck in.

“Polly, why wouldn’t you let us sample his oysters and champagne? Considering he’s a friend of yours, you seemed pretty short with him.”

“My dear, he’s not a friend of mine, nor ever could be; and as for his oysters and champagne, they’d have choked me if I’d touched them.”

“They wouldn’t have choked me, I can tell you that. There is some romance in oysters and champagne, and, as you know very well, romance is what I live for. There’s precious little comes my way; it seems hard it should be snatched from my lips just as I have a chance of tasting it.”

“Hollo! Who on earth——”

It was from Tom the exclamation came. He stopped short, with his sentence uncompleted. I turned to see what had caused him to speak—to find myself face to face with the most singular-looking individual I had ever seen.

CHAPTER II.
LOCKED OUT.

At first I could not make out if it was a man or woman or what it was. But at last I decided that it was a man. I never saw such clothes. Whether it was the darkness, or his costume, or what it was, I cannot say, but he seemed to me to be surprisingly tall. And thin! And old! Nothing less than a walking skeleton he seemed to me, the cheekbones were starting through his skin which was shrivelled and yellow with age. He wore what looked to me, in that light, like a whole length piece of double width yellow canvas cloth. It was wrapped round and round him, as, I am told, it is round mummies. A fold was drawn up over his head, so as to make a kind of hood, and from under this his face looked out.

Fancy coming on such a figure, on a dark night, all of a sudden, and you can guess what my feelings were. I thought I should have dropped. I had to catch tight hold of Tom’s arm.

“Tom,” I gasped, “what—whatever is it?”

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of this. Looney, he looks to me.”

Lunatic or not, he did not mean that we should get away from him quite so easily. He took Emily by the shoulder—you should have heard the scream she gave; if it had been louder it would have frightened the neighbourhood. But the lunatic, or whatever the creature was, did not seem to be in the least put out. He held her with both his hands, one on either shoulder, and turned her round to him, and stared at her in the most disgraceful way. He put his face so close to hers that I thought he was going to bite her, or something awful. But no; all at once he thrust her aside as if she was nothing at all.

“It is not she,” he murmured, half to himself, as it seemed, and half to us.

And before I could guess what he was going to do, he laid his hands on me. It was a wonder I did not faint right then and there. He gripped my shoulders so tight that I felt as if he had me screwed in a vice, and for days after my skin was black and blue. He thrust his face so close to mine that I felt his breath upon my cheeks. There was an odd smell about it which made me dizzy. He had little eyes, which were set far back in his head. I had a notion they were short-sighted, he seemed to have to peer so long and closely. At last his lips moved.

“It is she,” he said, in the same half-stifled voice in which he had spoken before. He had a queer accent. There was no mistaking what he said, but it was certain that his tongue was not an Englishman’s. “You will see me again—yes! Soon! You will remember me?”

Remember him? I should never forget him, never! Not if I lived to be as old as Methuselah. That hideous, hollow-cheeked, saffron-hued face would haunt me in my dreams. I do have dreams, pretty bad ones sometimes. I should see him in them many a time. My head whirled round. The next thing I knew I was in Tom’s arms. He was holding me up against Firandolo’s window. He spoke to me.

“It’s all right now; he’s gone.”

I sighed, and looked round. The wretch had vanished. What had become of him I did not ask, or care to know. It was sufficient for me that he had vanished. As I drew myself up I glanced round towards the restaurant door. Mr. Isaac Rudd’s face was pressed against the glass. Unless I was mistaken, when he perceived I saw him he drew back quickly. I slipped my arm through Tom’s.

“Let’s get away from here; let’s hurry home as fast as we can.”

Off we went, we three. Emily began to talk. Tom and I were silent. It was still as much as I could do to walk; I fancy Tom was thinking.

“It is a wonder I didn’t faint as well as you; if you hadn’t I should. But when you went I felt that it would never do for two of us to go, so I held myself tight in. Did you ever see anything like that awful man? I don’t believe he was alive; at least, I shouldn’t if it wasn’t for the way in which he pinched my shoulders. I shall be ashamed to look at them when I’ve got my dress off, I know I shall. My skin’s so delicate that the least mark shows. What was he dressed in? And who could the creature be? I believe he was something supernatural; there was nothing natural about him that I could see. Then his eye! He looked a thousand years old if he looked a day.”

She ceased. She glanced behind her once or twice. She drew closer to Tom. When she spoke again it was in a lower tone of voice.

“Mr. Cooper, do you mind my taking your arm? There’s—there’s someone following us now.”

Tom looked round. As he did so, two men came past us, one by me, the other one by Emily. The one who passed me was so close that his sleeve brushed mine; as he went he turned and stared at me with might and main. He was short, but very fat. He was shabbily dressed, and wore a cloth cap slouched over his eyes. When he had gone a yard or two the other man fell in at his side. They talked together as they slouched along; we could not but see that, while both of them were short, one was as thin as the other was stout.

“Are you sure they’ve been following us?” whispered Tom to Emily.

“Certain. They’ve been sticking close at our heels ever since we came away from Firandolo’s.”

The fact was put beyond dispute before we had gone another fifty yards. The two men drew up close in front of us, in such a way that it would have been difficult for us to pass without pushing them aside.

“Which of you two ladies is Miss Blyth?” asked the stout man, in the most impudent manner.

On a sudden I was becoming the object of undesired attention which I did not at all understand, and liked, if possible, still less. The fellow looked us up and down, as if we had been objects offered for sale.

“What has it to do with you?” returned Tom. “Who are you, anyhow?”

The thin man answered; the stout man had spoken in a shrill squeaky treble, he had the deepest possible bass.

“We’re the young lady’s friends; her two friends. Ain’t that gospel, Sam?”

“It’s that, William; it’s gospel truth. Truer friends than us she’ll never have, nor none what’s more ready to do her a good turn.”

“Not if she was to spend the rest of her days sailing round the world looking for ’em, she’d never find ’em, that she wouldn’t. All we ask is for her to treat us as her friends.” The thin man spat upon the pavement. “Now then, out with it; which of you two ladies is Miss Blyth?”

“I’m not,” cried Emily.

Which I thought was distinctly mean of her, because, of course, it was as good as saying that I was. Once more the stout man looked me up and down.

“You’re her, are you? So I thought. The other’s too pretty, by chalks. You’re a chip of the old block, and there wasn’t no beauty thrown away on him; plain he was, as ever I saw a man; and plainer.”

The fellow was ruder than ever. I am aware that Emily Purvis is a beauty, and that I am not, but at the same time one does not expect to be stopped and told so by two perfect strangers, at that hour of the night.

“For goodness’ sake,” I said to Tom, “let’s get away from these dreadful persons as fast as we possibly can.”

I made him come. The fat man called after us—in his squeaky treble.

“Dreadful, are we? Maybe you’ll change your mind before you’ve done. Don’t you be so fast in judging of your true friends, it don’t become a young woman. There’s more dreadful persons than us about, as perhaps you’ll find.”

“It is to be hoped,” I observed to Tom, and paying no attention whatever to Emily Purvis, who I knew was smiling on the other side of him, “that we shall meet no more objectionable characters before we get safely in.”

“They’re friends of yours, my dear.”

This was Emily.

“I don’t see how you make that out, seeing that I never saw them before, and never want to again.”

“Some of us have more friends than we know, my love.” Her love! “We’ve seen four of yours already; I shouldn’t be surprised if we saw another still before we’re in.”

As it happened, in a manner of speaking, it turned out that she was right; though, of course, to speak of the creature we encountered, even sarcastically, as a friend of mine, would be absurd. We were going along the Fenton Road. As we were passing a street, which branched off upon our right, there popped out of it, for all the world as if he had been waiting for us to come along, a man in a long black coat, reaching nearly to his heels, and a felt hat, which was crammed down so tight, that it almost covered his face as well as his head. I thought at first he was a beggar, or some object of the tramp kind, because he fell in at our side, and moved along with us, as some persistent beggars will do. But one glance at what could be seen of his features was sufficient to show that he was something more out of the common than that. He had a round face; almond-shaped eyes which looked out of narrow slits; a flat nose; a mouth which seemed to reach from ear to ear. There was no mistaking that this was a case of another ugly foreigner. The consciousness that he was near made me shudder; as he trudged along beside us I went uncomfortable all over.

“Go away! Make him go away!” I said to Tom.

Tom stood still.

“Now then, off you go! We’ve nothing for you. The sooner you try it off on somebody else, the less of your valuable time you’ll waste.”

Tom took him for a beggar. But he was wrong, and I was right; the man was not a beggar.

“Which is little lady?”

I don’t pretend that was exactly what he said. Thank goodness, I am English, and I know no language but my own, and that is quite enough for me, so it would be impossible for me to reproduce precisely a foreign person’s observations; but that is what he meant. Tom was angry.

“Little lady? What little lady? There’s no lady here, big or little, who has anything to do with you; so, now then, you just clear off.”

But the man did nothing of the kind. He hopped to Emily, and back again to me, peering at us both out of his narrow eyes.

“Which of you is Missee Blyth?”

“Miss Blyth! Is the whole world, all at once, on the look-out for Miss Blyth? What is the meaning of this little game? You, there, hook it!”

But instead of hooking it, to use Tom’s own language, and gentlemen will use slang, the man grew more and more insistent. He must have gone backwards and forwards between Emily and me half-a-dozen times.

“Quick! Tellee me! Which is Missee Blyth? Quick, quick! tellee me! I have something to give to Missee Blyth.”

“I am Miss Blyth.”

I did not suppose, for an instant, that he really had anything to give me. But the man seemed to be in such a state of agitation, that I felt that perhaps the best way to put an end to what was becoming a painful situation would be for me to declare myself without delay. However, to my surprise, hardly were the words out of my lips, than the man came rushing to me, thrusting something into my hand. From what I could feel of it, it appeared to be something small and hard, wrapped in a scrap of paper. But I had no chance of discovering anything further, because, before I had a chance of even peeping, the two short men, the fat and thin one, came rushing up, goodness only knows from where, and I heard the thin one call out, in his deep bass voice, to the other:

“He’s given it her—I saw him! At her, Sam, before she has a chance of pouching it.”

The stout man caught me by the wrist, gave it a twist, which hurt me dreadfully, and, before I could say Jack Robinson, he had the little packet out of my hand. It was like a conjuror’s trick, it all took place so rapidly, and before I had the least notion of what was going to happen. The foreign person, however, seemed to understand what had occurred better than I did. Clearly he did not want courage. With a sort of snarl he sprang at the stout man, and with both hands took him by the throat, as, I have heard, bulldogs have a way of doing. The stout man did not relish the attack at all.

“Pull him off me, William,” he squeaked.

The thin man endeavoured to do as he was told. And, in a moment, out in the open street there, the most dreadful fight was going on. What it was all about I had not the faintest idea, but they attacked each other like wild beasts. The foreign person did not seem to be at all dismayed by the odds of two to one. He assailed them with frightful violence.

Plainly it would be as much as they could do to deal with him between them. I certainly expected every second to see someone killed. Emily went off her head with terror. She rushed, screaming up the street. Tom dashed after her, whether to stop her or not I could not tell. And, of course, I rushed after Tom. And the three men were left alone to fight it out together.

Emily never drew breath till we were quite close to Cardew & Slaughter’s. Then a church clock rang out. It struck the half-hour. It might have struck her, she stopped so suddenly.

“Half-past eleven!” she cried. “My gracious! whatever shall we do?”

It was a rule of the firm that the assistants were to be in by half-past ten. Between the half-hour and the quarter there was a fine of sixpence, and between the quarter and the hour one of half-a-crown. After eleven no one was admitted at all. The doors had been closed for more than half-an-hour! We stood, panting for breath, staring at one another. Emily began to cry.

“I daren’t stop out in the streets all night—I daren’t!”

“I know a trick worth two of that,” declared Tom. “There’s a way in which is known to one or two of us; I’ve had to use it before, and I daresay I can use it again.”

“It’s all very well for you,” cried Emily. “But we can’t climb windows; and, if we could, there are no windows for us to climb.”

Tom hesitated. I could see he did not like to leave us in the lurch. The gentlemen slept right up at the other end of the building; there was no connection between his end and ours. I had heard of what Tom hinted at before; but then things are always different with gentlemen. As Emily said, for the ladies there was no way in but the door. Somehow I felt that, after all we had gone through, I did not mean to be trampled on.

“You go, Tom, and get in as best you can. Emily and I will get in too, or I’ll know the reason why.”

Away went Tom; and off started Emily and I to try our luck. She was not sanguine.

“They’ll never let us in, never!”

“We’ll see about that.”

I gritted my teeth, as I have a trick of doing when I am in earnest. I was in earnest then. It is owing to the firm’s artfulness that there are no bells or knockers on the doors leading to the assistants’ quarters. When they are open you can get in; when they are closed there are no means provided to call attention to the fact that you require admission. They had been unloading some packing-cases. I picked up two heavy pieces of wood which had been left lying about; with them I started to hammer at the door. How I did hammer! I kept it up ever so long; but no one paid the slightest heed. I began to despair. Emily was crying all the while. I felt like crying with her. Instead, I gritted my teeth still more, and I hammered, and I hammered. At last a window was opened overhead, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Galloway, put her head out.

“Who’s that making this disgraceful noise at this hour of the night?”

“It’s Miss Purvis and Miss Blyth. Come down and let us in; we’ve been nearly robbed and murdered.”

“I daresay! You don’t enter this house to-night; you know the rules. And if you don’t take yourselves off this instant I’ll send for the police.”

“Send for the police, that’s what we want you to do. The police will soon see if you won’t let us in.”

Mrs. Galloway’s head disappeared; the window was banged. Emily cried louder than ever.

“I told you she’d never let us in.”

“We’ll see if she won’t.”

Off I started again to hammer. Presently steps were heard coming along the passage. Mrs. Galloway’s voice came from the other side of the door.

“Stop that disgraceful noise! Go away! Do you hear me, go away!”

“If we do it will be to fetch the police. They’ll soon show you if you can keep us out all night when we’ve been nearly robbed and murdered.”

The door was opened perhaps three inches; as I believed, upon the chain. I knew Mrs. Galloway’s little tricks. But if it was upon the chain what occurred was odd. Someone came hurrying up the steps behind us. To my amazement it was the dreadful old man in the yellow canvas cloth. I was too bewildered to even try to guess where he had come from; I had never supposed that he, or anybody else, was near. He pointed to the door.

“Open!” he said, in that queer, half-stifled voice in which he had spoken to me before.

The door was opened wide, though how the housekeeper had had time to remove the chain, if it was chained, was more than I could understand. Emily and I marched into the passage—sneaked, I daresay, would have been the better word. As I went the stranger slipped something into my hand; a hard something, wrapped in a scrap of paper.

CHAPTER III.
THE DOLL.

I do not know what it was, but something prevented Mrs. Galloway from giving us the sort of talking to I had expected. She is a woman with as nasty a tongue as you would care to meet. I had never before known her lose a chance of using it. And there was a chance! But, instead, there she stood mumchance, and before she had even so much as said a word, Emily and I were off upstairs. I was on the second floor, and Emily was on the third. When I stopped to go into my room I called out to her, “Good night!” but she ran on, and never answered. She was in such a state of mind, what with the fright, and her crying, and the cold biting us through and through while we waited on the doorstep, that all she cared for was to get between the sheets.

In my room most of the girls were wide awake. It was not a large room, so there were only nine of us, and that was including Miss Ashton. She was the senior assistant, a regular frump, thirty if a day. She came to bed a quarter of an hour after we did, and after she had come to bed no one was supposed to talk. If any girl did talk Miss Ashton reported her, and the girl was fined, and half the fine, whatever it was, went into Miss Ashton’s pockets. So, of course—since, sometimes, her pockets were bulging out with our money—no love was lost between us.

When I went in, although I knew that most of the girls were awake, because of Miss Ashton no one spoke a syllable, until Lucy Carr, who had the next bed to mine, whispered as I stood by her:

“Whatever have you been up to?”

“I’ve been nearly robbed and murdered, that’s what I’ve been up to.”

“Miss Blyth, I shall report you for talking after midnight.”

This was Miss Ashton, cold, and hard, and short as usual. Trust her to go to sleep while there was a chance to snatch at somebody else’s penny!

“Very well, Miss Ashton, you can report me, and you can say, at the same time, that it’s a wonder that I was alive to talk at all, for what I’ve gone through this day, and this night, I alone can tell.”

I plumped down on my box, and I leaned my back against the wall, and I had to cry. Then all the girls set off together. Lucy Carr sat up in bed, and she put her arms about my neck; she was a nice girl, was Lucy Carr, we hardly ever quarrelled.

“Never mind her, my love; you know what she’s like; she can’t help it, it’s her nature. Don’t you cry, my dear.”

And then there were such remarks as “It’s a shame!” “Poor dear!” and “How can people be so cruel?” from the others. But Miss Ashton was not touched, not she; she simply said, in her cold, hard tones:

“Miss Carr, Miss Sheepshanks, Miss Flick, Miss James, I shall report you for talking after midnight.”

“That’s right,” said Lucy, “and much good may our money do you. I wish it would burn a hole in your pocket!”

Then the girls were still. Of course they did not want to lose all their money, and there was no knowing what the fine might be for talking at that time of night, and especially for keeping on. So I sat on my box, and I wiped my eyes; I never do believe much in crying, and somehow I felt too mad for a regular weep. I should like to have given Miss Ashton a real good shaking—everything would go wrong!

Just as I was beginning to undress—I actually had unhooked my bodice—I thought of what the object in the grey canvas cloth had slipped into my hand. What had become of it? In my agitation I had forgotten all about it. I was holding it when I came into the room—I remembered that. What had become of it since? I felt on my knee; it was not there. I had not put it in my pocket. It must have dropped on the floor. Intending to start a search I put out my foot and touched something with my toe. I reached out my hand; it was the scrap of paper.

As I picked it up I knew quite well that there could be nothing in it of the slightest consequence. People don’t give things worth having to perfect strangers, especially such people as that creature in the canvas cloth. Yet there had been a good deal of fuss. First the man in the long black coat had given me a scrap of paper; then the thin man had egged on the stout man to snatch it from me like a hungry lion; then, to regain it in his possession the black-coated man had attacked the two others like some mad wild beast; finally, to crown all, the canvas cloth creature had put into my hand what seemed to be the identical scrap of paper as I stood on the threshold of the door. There must be something of interest connected with the thing; or why had these persons, in spite of what Emily had said, all utter strangers to me, behaved in such an extraordinary manner?

I was both tired and sleepy, but I was more worried than either. Part of my worry had to do with that scrap of paper. What was in it? I was sure I should never sleep until I knew. It was about half an inch broad, and an inch and a half long. As I pressed it with my fingers, I could feel that something was inside, something queer-shaped and hard. The room was pretty dark. All the light there was came through the sides of the badly fitting blind from the lamp on the opposite side of the street. I could not get the paper open. It was fastened in some way I did not understand. As I held it up against the shaft of light which came through the side of the blind, to make out, if possible, what the trick of the fastening was, a queer thing took place.

Something moved inside, and tore the paper open. It was only a little thing, but it took me so completely by surprise that it affected me almost as much as if the ceiling had fallen in. What could there have been inside to move? I sat staring, in the darkness, with my mouth wide open. Suddenly there came Miss Ashton’s voice from the other end of the room.

“Miss Blyth, are you not going to get into bed at all to-night?”

At that moment I myself could not have told. I was holding in my hand something which gleamed at me. What it was I could not even guess. I only knew that two specks of light, which looked like eyes, were shining at me through the darkness; and that the thing had moved. There was Miss Ashton’s voice again.

“Do you hear me, Miss Blyth? Are you going to bed? or am I to summon Mrs. Galloway?”

Without answering her a word I dropped what I was holding on to the bed. I was convinced that it moved as I did so, as if to cling to my fingers. It was silly, but I was never so frightened in my life. I saw the two bright spots of light shining up at me from the counterpane as if they were watching me. I hardly dared to breathe. I slipped off my bodice, and the rest of my things, moving as little as I possibly could, and stood in my night-gown shivering by the bed. Had I not been afraid, I would have asked Lucy to let me get into bed with her. But I knew Miss Ashton would hear, and would rout me out again, and then there would be worse to follow. I should get Lucy into trouble as well as myself. And there was trouble enough in store for all of us already. Better face what there was to face alone, than drag anybody else into the ditch into which I seemed to be continually tumbling.

It was too ridiculous to be afraid to get into bed because that thing with the shining spots was lying on the counterpane. I was sensible enough to be aware of that. Yet I was afraid. Was it alive? If I could only have made sure that it was not, I should not have minded. But it was too dark to see; and I could not touch it.

“Miss Blyth, are you going to get into bed?”

“Well, Miss Ashton, there’s something on my bed, and I don’t know what it is.”

“Something on your bed? What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking?”

“Have you any matches? If you’ll lend me some, I shall be able to see what it is. I can’t get in until I know.”

“Is it a fresh trick you are playing me? I never heard anything so ridiculous. Here are some matches. Be quick; and don’t be sillier than you can help.”

I went and took the box of matches she held out to me. Returning, I lit one and held it over the counterpane. Some of the girls lifted their heads to watch me. Lucy Carr leaned right out of her bed towards mine.

“Whatever is it?” she whispered.

My hand shook so, with the cold, and the state I was in, that it was all I could do to keep it steady enough to prevent the match from going out. I held it lower.

“I believe it’s a frog.”

“A frog!” cried Lucy. She drew herself back with a little shriek.

“It’s—it’s something horrid.”

Two or three of the girls sat up, drawing the bedclothes to their chins.

“Miss Blyth, what is the cause of this confusion? Are we never to have any sleep to-night?”

Miss Ashton, getting out of bed, came across the room to see what was the matter. The match went out. The red-hot end dropped on to the counterpane. I brushed it off with my fingers. As I did so I touched the thing. My nerves were so strung up that I gave a scream. There came an echo from the girls. Miss Ashton was at my side before I could strike another match. She was in a fine rage.

“Give me the box!” She snatched it from me. “Have you been misbehaving yourself? or are you mad? I’ll soon see what is the cause of all this nonsense, and then I’ll be sorry for whoever is at the bottom of it.”

The first match she tried would not light. The second burst into vivid flame. She stooped down.

“What is this thing upon your bed? It’s some painted toy. You impudent girl!”

Picking it up, she threw it on to the floor into the corner of the room. Her match went out. There was a sound like a little cry of pain.

“Whatever’s that?” asked Lucy.

“It’s nothing,” replied Miss Ashton. “It was only the thing striking against the floor.”

“I believe it’s alive,” I said. “It shrieked.”

“I believe you have been drinking.”

“Miss Ashton!”

“I have heard of people who have been drinking seeing things—that appears to be your condition now. Are you going to get into bed? You will have something to shriek for when the morning comes.”

I got into bed, feeling so cowed, that I could not even resent, with a proper show of dignity, her monstrous accusation. That anyone could have been wicked enough to accuse me of such a thing! I was trembling all over. I believed that the thing had shrieked, and was haunted by a horrible doubt that it was alive. Never before was I in such a state of mind and body. My brain was all in a whirl. I could do nothing but lie there shivering; my joints and muscles seemed to be possessed by an attack of twitching spasms, as if I had been suddenly smitten with some hideous disease.

I heard Miss Ashton return to her own bed. Then a voice whispered in my ear, so gently that it could have been audible to no one but me—

“Never mind, dear. She’s a beast!”

It was Lucy. I put out my hand. She was leaning over me.

“Kiss me,” I muttered.

She kissed me. It did me good. I held her, for a moment, to me. It comforted me to feel her face against mine.

“Now go to sleep! and don’t you dream!”

It was easy enough to talk; it was harder to do. I did not often dream. Not nearly so much as some of the other girls, who were always telling us of the things they dreamed about. Rubbish it mostly was. I always said they made up three parts of it, not believing that such stuff could get into the heads of sensible people, even when they were asleep. That night I dreamt while I was wide awake. I was overcome by a sort of nightmare horror, which held me, with staring eyes and racking head, motionless between the sheets, as if I had been glued to them. It was as if the thing which Miss Ashton had thrown on the floor was in an agony of pain, and as if it had communicated its sufferings to me.

At last I suppose I must have gone to sleep. And then it was worse than ever. What I endured in my sleep that night no one could conceive. It was as if I were continually passing through endless chambers of nameless horrors. With it all were mixed up the events of the evening. I saw Isaac Rudd, and the creature in the canvas cloth, and the two short men, and the person in the long black coat. They kept popping in and out, always in full enjoyment of my tortures. There were Emily and I, standing at the top of an enormous flight of steps, in pitch-black darkness, in frightful weather, outside the door of some dreadful place, and there were those dreadful creatures jeering at us because no one would let us in. And Tom—I knew that somewhere near Tom was crying. And the thing which was in the scrap of paper was with me all the night. It was always on me somewhere; now on my throat, biting through the skin; now on my breast, drawing the life right out of me; now on my toes, hampering my feet, so that I could scarcely lift them up and down; now inside my mouth, filling me with a horrible choking sense of nausea.

But perhaps the strangest part of it all was that, when I awoke, there actually was something on my forehead. I felt it against my chin. Giving my head a sudden shake it slipped off on to the pillow at my side. I sat up. It was broad day. I saw it as plain as could be. A little painted thing, tricked out in ridiculously contrasting shades of green, and pink, and yellow. As Miss Ashton had said, it might have been a toy. I had seen things not unlike it in the shop, among the Japanese and Chinese curiosities. Or it might have been a tiny representation of some preposterous heathen god, with beads for eyes.

CHAPTER IV.
AN INTERVIEW WITH MR. SLAUGHTER.

That was a curious day. More things happened on it than on any day of my life before. It was the beginning of everything and the end of some things. From morning to night there was continual movement like in the transformation scene in a pantomime. When, since one was born, nothing has taken place, and nothing changed, it makes such a difference.

I got up feeling dreadfully stale; an up-all-night sort of feeling. Not that I ever have been up all night; but I know what the sensation is like because of the descriptions I have read. Miss Ashton was disagreeable, and the girls were snappish—even Lucy Carr was short; and, I daresay, I was not too nice. But then there often is a little show of temper in the morning; it is human nature. They had all begun when I got down to breakfast, and, of course, I got black looks for that. I caught sight of Emily Purvis as I sat down. She nodded; but it struck me that she was not looking brilliant, any more than I was.

Breakfast stuck in my throat. The butter was bad as usual—cheap margarine just rank enough to make pastry taste. The bread seemed as if it had been cut for hours, it was so hard and dry. I did manage to swallow a mouthful of tea; but the water was smoked, and I do not like condensed milk which is just going off, so I could not do much even with that. On the whole I did not feel any better for the meal when I got into the shop. I am not sure that I did not feel worse; and I knew I should be sinking before dinner came. Mr. Broadley began at me at once. He set me re-packing a whole lot of stock, which he declared I had not put tidily away; which was perfectly untrue, because, as a matter of fact, it was Miss Nichols who had had it last, and it was she who had put it back again. And, anyhow, some of those trimmings, when they have been once shown, will not set neatly; they are like hats, they cannot be made to go just so.

It was past eleven, and I had not had a single customer; it was miserable weather, and perhaps that had something to do with it, because scarcely a soul came into the shop. Mr. Broadley kept me at putting the shelves in order, almost as if I had been stock-taking. Not that I cared, for I hate doing nothing; especially as, if you so much as speak to one of the other young ladies, he is fit to murder you; that is the worst of your married shopwalkers, directly a girl opens her mouth he jumps down it. Still, I did not like it all the same; because I was getting tired, and hungry too; and, when you are hungry, the only way to stave the feeling off is to be kept busy serving; then you cannot stop to think what you would like to eat.

At last, just as a customer entered the shop, and was coming toward me, up sailed Mr. Broadley.

“Miss Blyth, you’re wanted in the office.”

My heart dropped down with a thump. I had half expected it all along, but now that it had come I went queer all over. I had to catch hold of the counter to keep up straight. Miss Nichols, seeing how it was with me, whispered as she went past:

“It’s all right, Pollie, don’t you worry, it’s nothing. Buck up, old girl.”

It was nice of her to try to cheer me up; but there was a choking something in my throat which prevented me from thanking her. Broadley was at me again.

“Hurry up, Miss Blyth, don’t stand mooning there. Didn’t you hear me tell you that you are wanted in the office?”

He was a bully, he was, to the finger-tips. I knew that he was smiling at me all the time; enjoying my white face, and the tremble I was in. When I got away from the counter I felt as if my knees were giving way beneath me. Everyone stared as I went past—I could have cried. They knew perfectly well that being summoned to the office during working hours meant trouble.

Outside the office was Emily Purvis. I had been wondering if she would be there, yet it was a shock to see her all the same. She was quite as much upset as I was. I knew that her nearest friends were down in Devonshire, and that she was not on the best of terms with them; so that if there was going to be serious trouble, she would be just as badly off as I was, without any friends at all. Her pretty face looked all drawn and thin, as if she were ten years older than she really was. It would only want a very little to start her tears. Her voice shook so that I could hardly make out what she said.

“Pollie, what do you think they’ll do to us?”

“I don’t know. Where’s Tom? Did he get in all right? Has he—been sent for?”

“How can I tell? I don’t know anything about Mr. Cooper. You know, Pollie, it was not my fault that I was in late.”

“So far as I know it was neither of our faults. I wonder if Tom got in all right.”

“Bother Tom! It’s very hard on me. I wonder if they’ll fine us?”

Before I could answer Mr. Slaughter put his head out of the office.

“Come in there! Stop that chattering! Are you the two young women I sent for?”

We went in, standing like two guilty things. Mr. Slaughter sat at his desk.

“Which of you is Mary Blyth?”

“I am, sir.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

He leant back in his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and looked me up and down, as if he was valuing me. He was a little man, with untidy hair and a scrubby black beard. I could not have been more afraid of him if he had been a dozen times as big. He had a way of speaking as if he would like to bite you; and as if he wished you to clearly understand that, should he have to speak again, he would take a piece clean out of you. Everybody about the place was more frightened of him than of Mr. Cardew. It was he who had made it what it was. In the beginning it had been nothing; now there were all those shops. He was a thorough man of business, without a grain of feeling in him. We all felt that he looked on us assistants as if we were so many inferior cattle, not to be compared, for instance, to the horses which drew his vans.

I could have sunk through the ground as he continued to stare at me. It was more than I could do to meet his eyes; yet something seemed to say that he did not think much of what he saw. His first words showed that I was right.

“Well, Mary Blyth, it seems that you’re an altogether good-for-nothing young woman. From what I find upon this paper it seems that there’s everything to be said against you, nothing in your favour; no good for business, no good for anything. And you look it. I can’t make out why you’ve been kept about the place so long; it points to neglect somewhere. It appears that you’re habitually irregular; three times yesterday you missed making a sale, and you know what that means. We don’t keep saleswomen who send customers away empty-handed; we send them after the customers. You were impertinent to Mr. Broadley. And, to crown all, you were out last night till something like the small hours. On your return you made a riot till they let you in, and more riot when you were in. Miss Ashton, who is far too gentle, does not like to say that you had been drinking, but she says that you behaved as though you had been. In short, you’re just the type of young woman we don’t want in this establishment. You’ll go and draw whatever is due to you, if anything is due; and you’ll take yourself and your belongings off these premises inside of half an hour. That, Mary Blyth, is all I have to say to you.”

For the moment, when he had finished, I was speechless. It was all so cruel and unjust; and there was so much to be said in reply to every word he uttered, that the very volume of my defence seemed to hold me paralysed. I could only stammer out:

“It is the first time I have been reported to you, sir.”

“As I have already observed, there has evidently been neglect in that respect. The delay amounts to a failure of duty. I will make inquiries into its cause.”

“It was not my fault that I was late, sir.”

“No? Was the gentleman to blame?”

My face flamed up. I could have slapped him on the cheek. What did he mean by his insinuations?

“You have no right to speak to me like that!”

“When young women in my employment misbehave themselves as you have done I make plain speaking a rule. A man was with you, because one was seen. You can apportion the blame between you.” I could not tell him it was Tom; it might have been bad for him. “None of your airs with me; off you go. Stay! This other young woman heard me talk to you; now you shall hear me talk to her. Is your name Emily Purvis?”

“Yes, sir. It’s the first time—I never meant it—it wasn’t my fault.”

Emily broke into stammering speech; he cut her short.

“Don’t you trouble yourself to talk; I’ll do all the talking that’s required. You were out after hours with Miss Blyth. I’m not going to ask any questions, and I’ll listen to no explanations; young women who scour the streets at midnight are not the sort I like. We are judged by the company we keep. You were Mary Blyth’s companion last night; you’ll be her companion again. With her, you’ll draw what is due to you; with her, you’ll clear yourself off these premises inside half an hour. Now, stop it!”

Emily began crying.

“Oh, Mr. Slaughter, I’ve done nothing! it isn’t fair! I’ve nowhere to go to!”

“Oh, yes, you have, you’ve outside this office to go to. Now, no nonsense!” He struck a hand-bell; a porter entered. “Take these young women out of this; let them have what’s due to them; see they’re off the premises inside half an hour.”

“Oh, Mr. Slaughter!” wailed Emily.

It made me so angry to see her demean herself before that unfeeling thing of wood, that I caught her by the wrist.

“Come, Emily! don’t degrade yourself by appealing to that cruel, unjust, hard-hearted man. Don’t you see that he thinks it fine sport to trample upon helpless girls?”

“Come, none of that.”

The porter put his hand upon my shoulder. Before I knew it we were out of the office and half a dozen yards away. I turned upon him in a flame of passion.

“Take your hand from off my shoulder! If you dare to touch me again you’ll be sorry!”

He was not a bad sort. He seemed scared at the sight of me.

“I don’t want to do anything to you. Only what’s the good of making a fuss? You know he’s master here.”

“And, because he’s master here, I suppose, if he tells you to behave like a miserable coward, you would?”

“What’s the use of talking? If he says you’ve got to go, you’ve got to, and there’s an end of it. You take my advice, and don’t be silly.”

“Silly! Your advice! When I ask you for your advice, you give it, not before.”

I stood and glared. I do not think he altogether liked the look of me; I am sure that had he touched me I should have flown at him, and I rather suspect he knew it. While he hesitated I heard someone speaking in loud tones in the office from which we had just now been ejected. It was a man’s voice.

“I want to see Miss Blyth.”

It was Mr. Slaughter who replied.

“I say you can’t see Miss Blyth, so you have my answer, sir.”

“But that is an answer which I am unable to accept. I must see Miss Blyth, and at once, on a matter of grave importance.”

“Don’t talk to me, sir; my time is valuable. This is neither the hour nor the place at which we are accustomed to allow a stranger to see the young women in our employ. And as, in any case, this particular young woman is no longer in our employ, I repeat that you cannot see Miss Blyth.”

“Oh, yes, you can—for here is Miss Blyth.”

Darting past the porter, who seemed pretty slow-witted, I was back again in the office. A stranger was confronting the indignant Mr. Slaughter. I had just time to see that he was not old, and that he was holding a top hat, when he turned to me.

“Are you Miss Mary Blyth?”

“I am, Mr. Slaughter knows I am.”

“My name is Paine, Frank Paine. I am a solicitor. If you are the Mary Blyth I am in search of I have a communication to make to you of considerable importance.”

“Then make it outside, sir.” This was Mr. Slaughter.

The porter appeared at the door.

“What’s the meaning of this, Sanders? Didn’t I tell you to see this young woman off the premises?”

“I was just seeing her, sir, when she slipped off before I knew it.”

I flashed round at Sanders.

“You’ve assaulted me once, don’t you dare to assault me again; this gentleman’s a solicitor. If you’re a solicitor, Mr. Paine, I want you to help me. Because I was accidentally prevented from returning till a few minutes after time last night, Mr. Slaughter wishes to send me away at a moment’s notice, without a character.”

“Is that the case, Mr. Slaughter?”

“What business is it of yours? Upon my word! I tell you again to leave my office.”

“You appear to wish to carry things off with a high hand.”

“A high hand! Mr. Slaughter thinks that he has only to lift his little finger to have us all turned into the street.”

“If that is so, he is in error. Miss Blyth is my client. As her solicitor I would advise you to be sure that you are treating her with justice.”

“Her solicitor!” Mr. Slaughter laughed. “I wish you joy of the job, you won’t make a fortune out of her!” He waved his hands. “Any communication you have to make, you make through the post. For the last time I ask you to leave my office.”

“Come, Mr. Paine, we will go. He need not ask us again. As he says, we can communicate with him through the post; and that will not necessitate our being brought into his too close neighbourhood.”

I shook the dust of the office off my feet. Mr. Paine seemed puzzled. Outside was Emily, still crying. I introduced her.

“This is Emily Purvis, another victim of Mr. Slaughter’s injustice. Emily, this is my solicitor, Mr. Paine.”

She stared, as well she might. For all I knew, it might have been a jest of his, he might not have been a solicitor at all. The truth is I was quite as anxious to carry things off with a high hand as Mr. Slaughter could be; so I held my head as high as ever I could.

“Mr. Paine, we are going to draw our salaries. They are sure to get as much out of us in fines as they can. Will you come and see that they don’t cheat us more than can be helped?”

“Fines!” Mr. Paine looked grave. “I doubt if they have any right to deduct fines without your express permission.”

So he told them. That book-keeper had a pleasant time—the wretch! He made out that the princely sum of fifteen shillings was due to each of us; and off this, he wanted to dock me nine and six, and Emily five. Mr. Paine would not have it. He put things in such a way that the book-keeper referred to Mr. Slaughter. Mr. Slaughter actually sent back word to say that he was to give us our fifteen shillings and let us go. Then Mr. Paine handed in his card, and said that if we did not receive, within four and twenty hours, a quarter’s salary in lieu of notice, proceedings would be immediately commenced for the recovery of the same.

So, in a manner of speaking, Emily and I marched off with flying colours.

CHAPTER V.
THE MISSIONARY’S LETTER.

The question was, what was to become of us? With no friends one cannot live long on fifteen shillings. Even if we got fresh situations in a fortnight it would only be with management that the money could be made to last that time; and, if we did, then we should be more fortunate than I expected to be.

Mr. Paine, however, postponed the solution of the difficulty by suggesting that I should arrange nothing until I had had a talk with him. I was willing; though what he had to do with it was more than I could guess; unless, like they used to do in the fairy tales, he was all of a sudden going to turn out to be my fairy godpapa. One thing I insisted on, that Emily should come with me. So, after I had scribbled a note to Tom—“Dear Tom, Emily and I have got the sack. Meet me after closing time at the usual place. Yours, as ever, Pollie. P.S.—Hope you’re all right”—which Sanders, who was a good sort, promised to see he got—we all three got into a four-wheeled cab, with our boxes on top, and away we rattled.

“Good bye, Slaughter!” I said. “And may we never want to see your face again. And now, Mr. Paine, where are you taking us to?”

“To my offices in Mitre Court. What I have to say to you may take some time, and require a little explanation, and there we shall have the necessary privacy.”

It sounded mysterious, and I began to wonder more and more what he had to say. I daresay I should have put my wonder into words, only just at that moment, who should I see, peeping at us round the corner of the street which we were passing, but the man who paid our bill at Firandolo’s, and who said his name was Isaac Rudd. The sight of him gave me quite a shock.

“There’s Isaac Rudd!” I cried.

“Isaac—who?” asked Emily. She can be dull.

“Why, the man who paid the bill last night.”

Then she understood. Out went her head through the window.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

“No, and he’ll take care you won’t. Unless I’m mistaken, directly he knew I saw him he took himself away; but he’s got his eye upon us all the same.”

I looked at Emily, and she at me. Mr. Paine saw that something was up.

“Who was that you’re speaking of? Someone who has been annoying you?”

“No—nothing. Only there was something a little queer took place last night.”

I sat silent, thinking of Isaac Rudd; as, I daresay, was Emily too. Putting two and two together, it was odd that he should be just there at that particular moment. Especially as, a little farther on, I saw, standing in the shadow of a doorway, a man in a long black overcoat, with his hat crushed over his eyes, who bore the most amazing resemblance to the foreigner who had given me the something in a scrap of paper.

Suddenly I jumped up from my seat. I was so startled that I could not help but give a little scream. They both stared at me.

“What is wrong?” asked Mr. Paine.

“Why, look at that!”

There, sitting, as it were, bolt upright on my knee was the something which had been in the scrap of paper. Mr. Paine eyed it.

“What is it?”

“That’s what I should like to know; also where it’s come from; it wasn’t there a moment back, and that I’ll swear.”

“May I look at it?”

“Certainly; and throw it out of the window too, for all I care.”

Mr. Paine took it up. He turned it over and over.

“It looks like one of the images, representatives of well known deities, which are used as household gods on some of the Pacific coasts. People hang them over their beds, or over the thresholds of their doors, or anywhere. Imitations are sold in some of the London shops. Perhaps Messrs. Cardew & Slaughter keep them in stock.”

“That I am sure they don’t. And, if they do, that’s not out of their stock. That was given to me last night by a foreigner in yellow canvas cloth. It jumped out of the scrap of paper in which it was wrapped——”

“Jumped?”

“If it didn’t jump I don’t know what it did do; I can tell you it took me aback. Miss Ashton threw it on to the floor; yet, when I woke up this morning, it was on my forehead, though how it got there I know no more than the dead.”

“Are you in earnest, Pollie?”

“Dead earnest. It’s my belief I left it in the bedroom, though I might have put it in my pocket, but how it came on to my knee is just what I can’t say.”

Mr. Paine was dividing his attention between me and the thing.

“This is very interesting, Miss Blyth. Especially as I also have had a curious experience or two lately. Can you describe the person who gave it you?”

I described him, to the best of my ability.

“That is—odd.”

His tone seemed to suggest that something in my description had struck him; though what it was he did not explain.

“You’d better throw that thing out of the window,” I said. “I’ve had enough of it.”

“Thank you; but, if you have no use for it, if you do not mind, I should like to retain it in my own possession. It’s a curiosity, and—I’m interested in curiosities.”

He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. I noticed that once or twice he felt with his fingers, as if to make sure that it still was there.

Mr. Paine was very civil to us when we reached his office—a funny, dark little place it was. He got out some cake, and biscuits, and a decanter of wine, and Emily and I helped ourselves, for I was starving. Sitting at a table in front of us, he took some papers out of a drawer, and began to look at them. Now that I could notice him more I could see that he was tall and well set up; quite the gentleman; with one of those clear-cut faces, and keen grey eyes, with not a hair upon it—I mean upon his face, of course, because I particularly observed that his teeth and eyelashes were perfect.

“Before I go into the subject on which I have ventured to bring you here, I am afraid I shall have to ask you one or two questions, Miss Blyth.”

His manner was just what it ought to have been, respectful, and yet not too distant.

“Any answers I can give you, Mr. Paine, you are welcome to.”

“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Mary Ann Batters. She died six years ago next month, when I was fourteen. My father’s name was Augustus. He was a most superior person, although unfortunate in business; and though he died five years before my mother, I’ve heard her say, almost to her last hour, that she had married above her—which I believe she did.”

“Had your mother any relations?”

“None.”

“Think again.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, there was one; but about him least said soonest mended; although he was her brother—that is, until she cast him off.”

“What was his name?”

“Benjamin. Although I do not remember ever hearing her mention it, and, indeed, she was opposed to speaking of him at all; I learned it was so through finding some letters of his in one of her boxes after she was dead, and those letters I have unto this day.”

“That is fortunate; because it is as the representative of Mr. Benjamin Batters that I am here.”

“Indeed? You don’t mean to say so. This is a surprise.”

And not a pleasant one either. I had heard of Mr. Benjamin Batters, though not for years and years, but never had I heard anything to his credit. A regular all-round bad lot he must have been, up to all sorts of tricks, and worse than tricks. I had reason to believe he had been in prison more than once, perhaps more than twice. When you have a relation like that, and have forgotten all about him, and are thankful to have been able to do it, you do not like to have him come flying, all of a sudden, in your face. I was not obliged to Mr. Paine for mentioning his name. If that was all he had to talk about I was sorry I had come.

“I may take it, then, that Mr. Benjamin Batters is an uncle of yours.”

“In a manner of speaking. Although, considering my mother, his sister, cast him off, and that I myself never set eyes upon the man, it is only by a figure of speech that you can call him so.”

“Mr. Benjamin Batters, Miss Blyth, is dead.”

“Then that alters the case. And I can only hope that he died better than, I have been told, he lived.”

“I should mention that I myself never met Mr. Batters, nor do I, really, know anything at all about him. My connection with him is rather an odd one. A little more than a week ago I received this package.” He held out a bundle of papers. “Its contents rather surprised me. Among other things was this letter, which, with your permission, I will read to you. ‘Great Ka Island, lat. 5° South; long. 134° East’—that is the heading of the letter; the address at which it purports to have been written. A curious one, you will perceive it is. There actually is such an island. It lies some three hundred miles off the western coast of New Guinea, in the Arafura Sea; and that, practically, is all I have hitherto been able to learn about it. I have made inquiries, in the likeliest places, for someone who has ever been there, but I have not, as yet, been able to light on such a person. Ships, it appears, trade among the islands thereabouts. To the captain of one of those the letter may have been handed. He may have transferred it to the captain of an English vessel engaged in the Australian trade, who bore it with him to England, and then posted it to me; for that it was posted in London there is the postmark on the original package to witness. I am informed, however, that letters from those out-of-the-way corners of the world do reach England by circuitous routes, so that, in itself, there is nothing remarkable in that.

“There is a discrepancy, I am bound to add, which, considering what the letter purports to be, is a distinct misfortune—it is undated. But I will read it, and then you yourself will see my point.

“That was where mother lived when she was a girl,” I interposed.

Mr. Paine read on:

Mr. Paine ceased; he looked at us, and we at him.

“That’s a funny letter,” I remarked.

“Funny!” cried Emily. “Pollie, how can you say so? Why, it’s a romance.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Paine. His voice was a little dry. “It is, perhaps, because it is so like a romance that it seems—odd.”

I had a fancy that he had meant to use another word instead of “odd;” I wondered what it was.

“According to that letter my Uncle Benjamin must have changed a good deal before he died; I never heard of his being at peace with anyone. Mother used to say that he would fight his left hand against his right rather than not fight at all.”

“From what you have been telling us a marked alteration must have taken place in his character. But then, when people are dying, they are apt to change; to become quite different beings—especially in the eyes of those who are looking on.” Again there was that dryness in the speaker’s tone. I felt sure there was a twinkle in his eye. “You will see, Miss Blyth, that this letter is, to all intents and purposes, a certificate of your uncle’s death; you will understand, therefore, how unfortunate it is that it should be undated. We are, thus, in this position; that, although his death, and even his burial, are certified, we do not know when either event took place; except that, as it would appear from the context, he was buried on the same day on which he died—which, in such a climate, is not unlikely. Our only means of even remotely guessing at the period of his decease is by drawing deductions from the date of his will.”

“His will! You don’t mean to say that my uncle Benjamin left a will?”

“He did; and here it is.”

“I expect that that’s all he did leave.”

“You are mistaken; he left a good deal more.”

“To whom did he leave it?”

“It is to give you that very information, Miss Blyth, that I ventured to bring you here.”

I gasped. This was getting interesting. A cold shiver went down my back. I had never heard of a will in our family before, there having been no occasion for such a thing. And to think of Uncle Benjamin having been the first to start one! As the proverb says, you never can tell from a man’s beginning what his end will be—and you cannot.

Emily came a little closer, and she took my hand in hers, and she gave it a squeeze, and she said:

“Never mind, Pollie! bear up!”

I did not know what she meant, but it was very nice of her, though I had not the slightest intention of doing anything else. But, as my mother used to say, human sympathy is at all times precious. So I gave her squeeze for squeeze. And I wished that Tom was there.

CHAPTER VI.
SOLE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

Mr. Paine unfolded a large sheet of blue paper.

“This is, it appears, the last will and testament of your late uncle, Benjamin Batters. It is, as, when you have heard it, I think you will yourself agree, a somewhat singular document. It came with the letter from Mr. Lennard which I have just now read you. It is, so far as I know, authentic; but it is my duty to inform you that the whole affair is more than a little irregular. This document seems to be a holograph—that is, I take it that it is in your uncle’s own writing. Do you recognise his handwriting?”

He gave me the paper. I glanced at it. Emily peeped over my shoulder.

“Well, I shouldn’t exactly like to go so far as that, but I have some letters of his, and, so far as I remember, the writing seems about the same. But you can see them if you like; then you will be able to compare it.”

“I should be very much obliged, Miss Blyth, if you would allow me to do so. A very important point would be gained if we could prove the writing. As matters stand at present I am in a position in which I am able to prove absolutely nothing. Mr. Batters was a stranger to me; he seems, also, to have been a stranger to you; I can find nobody who knew him. All we have to go upon is this letter from the other end of the world, from a person of whom no one knows anything, and which may or may not be genuine. Should another claimant arise we should be placed in a very awkward situation.”

“Is there going to be another claimant? And what is there to claim?”

“So far as I know there is going to be none; but in legal matters it is necessary to be prepared for every emergency. As to what there is to claim, I will tell you.”

I gave him back the blue paper. He began to read. Emily came closer. I could feel that she was all of a flutter.

Mr. Paine stopped.

“I may say that bonds producing that amount were enclosed in the package. Here they are.”

“Four Hundred and Eighty Eight Pounds Nineteen Shillings and Sixpence a year!” said Emily. “I congratulate you, Pollie!”

She kissed me, right in front of Mr. Paine. For my part, I felt a queer something steal all over me. My heart began to beat. To think of Uncle Benjamin, of all people in the world, leaving me such a fortune as that! And at the very moment when all my expectations in this world amounted to exactly fifteen shillings! There need be no more waiting for Tom and me. We would be married before the year was out, or I would know the reason why.

Mr. Paine went on.

“The will is by no means finished, ladies. The greater, and more remarkable part of it is to follow. When you have heard what it is I am not sure that Miss Blyth will consider herself entitled to congratulations only.”

What could he mean? Had the old rascal changed his mind in the middle of his own will?

“‘This money,’ Mr. Batters goes on to say, ‘was earned by hard labour, the sweat of my brow, and sufferings untold, so don’t let her go and frivol it away as if it was a case of lightly come and lightly go.’”

“If that’s true, Uncle Benjamin must have altered, because I’ve heard my mother say, over and over again, that he never could be induced to do an honest day’s work in all his life.”

“People sometimes do alter—as I have observed. ‘On condition, also, that she does as I tell her,’ continues Mr. Batters, ‘I bequeath to her the life tenancy of my house, 84, Camford Street, Westminster, together with the use of the furniture it contains.’”

“What!” interrupted Emily, “a house and furniture too. Why, Pollie, what else can you want?”

I wondered myself. But I was soon to know. Mr. Paine read on:

“That, Miss Blyth, is what purports to be your uncle’s will.”

“But,” I gasped, “what is that at the end about stopping in the house, and letting no one come in, and all the rest of it?”

“Those are the conditions on which you are to inherit. Before, however, touching on them I should like to point out in what respect the will seems to me to be most irregular. First of all, it is undated. There could hardly be a more serious flaw. There is nothing to show if it was made last week or fifty years ago. In the interim all sorts of things may have happened to render it null and void. Then a signature to a will requires two witnesses; this has none. Then the wording is extremely loose. For instance, should you fail to fulfil certain conditions, the property is to pass to the Society for Befriending Sailors. So far as I can learn there is no such society. Societies for befriending sailors there are in abundance, but there is not one of that exact name, and it would become a moot point which one of them the testator had in his mind’s eye.”

“All of which amounts to—what?”

“Well, it amounts to this. You can receive the money referred to, and live in the house in question, at your own risk, until someone comes forward with a better title. It will not need a very good title, I am sorry to say, Miss Blyth, to be better than that which is conferred on you by this document. I am not saying this by way of advice, but simply as a statement of the case as it appears to me.”

“What I want to know is, what’s the meaning of those conditions? I suppose, by the way, there is such a house.”

“There certainly is. Camford Street is an old, and not particularly reputable street, one end of which leads into the Westminster Bridge Road. No. 84 is in a terrace. From the exterior—which is as much as I have seen of it—it looks as if it had not been occupied for a considerable period of time. Indeed, according to the neighbours, no one has lived in it for, some say ten, others fifteen, and others twenty years.”

“That sounds nice,” cut in Emily. “If no one has lived in it for all that time I shouldn’t be surprised if it wanted a little cleaning.”

“Not at all improbable, from what it looks like outside. The shutters are up at the window—on that point, I may mention, a man who has a small chandler’s shop on the opposite side of the road, tells rather a singular story. He informed me that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, the last occupant of the house was a man named Robertson. He was an old man. Mr. Kennard, my informant, says that what became of him he does not know. He did not move; there was no attempt to let the place; he simply ceased to be seen about. Nor has a living soul been seen in the house for years. But, he says, some months ago, he is not sure how many, when he got up one morning to open his shop, on looking across the road he saw that all the windows inside were screened by shutters. He declares that not only were there no shutters there the night before, but dirty old blinds which were dropping to pieces, but that he never had seen shutters there before, and, indeed, he doubted if there were such things at any other house in the terrace. If his tale is true, it seems an odd one.”

“It sounds,” said Emily, “as if the house were haunted.”

“Without going so far as that, it does seem as if the shutters could hardly have got there of their own accord, and that someone must have been inside on that particular night, at any rate. No one, however, was seen, either then or since. There the shutters are, as one can perceive in spite of the accumulated grime which almost hides the windows. No one seems to know who the house belongs to, or ever did belong to; and I would observe that, since no title deeds were in the package, or any hint that such things were in existence, we have only Mr. Batters’ bare word that the property was his. I should hasten to add that there is a small parcel addressed to Miss Blyth, whose contents may throw light, not only on that matter, but on others also.”

He handed me a parcel done up in brown paper. It was addressed, in very bad writing, “To be given to my niece, Mary Blyth, and to be opened by her only.” I cut the string, and removed the wrapper. In it was a common white wood box. Emily leaned over my shoulder.

“Whatever is inside?” she asked.

The first thing I saw when I lifted the lid, gave me a start, and I own it—there, staring me in the face, was the own brother of the little painted thing which was in the packet which the foreigner had slipped between my fingers.

“Why,” I cried, “if there isn’t another!”

“Another!” Mr. Paine gave a jump. “That’s very odd.” He was fishing about in his waistcoat pocket. “I thought you gave me the one you had.”

“So I did. You put it in the pocket in which you’re feeling.”

“I thought I did. But—have you noticed me taking it out?”

“You’ve not taken it out, of that I’m sure.”

“But—I must have done. It’s gone.”

His face was a study. I hardly knew whether to laugh or not.

“It strikes me,” he remarked, “that someone is playing a trick on us; and, as I’m not over fond of tricks which I don’t understand, I’ll put an end to this little joke once and for all.”

There was a fire burning in the grate. Laying the box down on a chair, taking the little painted thing between his finger and thumb, off he marched towards the fireplace. As he was going, all of a sudden he gave a little jump, as I suppose, loosened his hold, and down the thing dropped on to the floor. He stood staring at his hand, and at the place where it had fallen, as if startled.

“Where’s it gone?” he asked.

“It must have rolled under the table.” This was Emily.

But it had not. We searched in every nook and cranny. It had vanished, as completely as if it had never been.

“This is a pretty state of affairs. If it goes on much longer we shall begin to take to seeing things. If the rest of the contents of the box are of the same pattern, you might have kept it, Mr. Paine, for all I care.”

But they were not. The next thing I took out was a key. It was a little one, and the queerest shape I ever saw. It was fastened to a steel chain; at one end of the chain was a padlock. Attached to the handle of the key was a kind of flying label; on it this was written:

“That’s cheerful reading,” I observed, when I had read the label to an end. I passed it to Mr. Paine.

“It is curious,” he admitted. “In which respect it’s of a piece with all the rest.”

When Emily read it her eyes and mouth opened as wide as they very well could do.

“I never!” she cried. “Isn’t it mysterious?”

“What shall I do?” I asked, when the chain and key had been returned to me.

Mr. Paine considered.

“You had better do as instructed—burn the label; that is, after we have taken a copy. There is nothing said against your doing that; and, if you have a copy, it will prevent your memory playing you false. As for the key itself—will it do you any harm to fasten it to your waist in the manner directed?”

“Except that it’s a bit too mysterious for my taste. Some folks like mysteries; I don’t.”

“My dear,” cut in Emily, “they’re the salt of life!”

“Then I don’t like salt. Perhaps it’s because I’m a plain person that I like plain things. Here’s more mystery.”

The only thing left in the box was an envelope. When I took it out I found that on it this was written:

I showed it to Mr. Paine, who was copying the label.

“What shall I do with that?”

“As you are told. Open it when you are in the house, and afterwards, if it is not expressly forbidden, you can, if you choose, communicate the contents to me.”

While he copied the label I went with Emily into an inner room, which turned out to be his bedroom; put the chain about my waist inside my bodice, and closed the padlock; and it was only when I had done so that I discovered that it had no key, so that how I was to open it, and get the chain off again, goodness only knew. Emily kept talking all the while.

“Pollie, isn’t it all just lovely? In spite of what you say, your Uncle Benjamin must have been a really remarkable man. It’s like a romance.”

“I wish my Uncle Benjamin hadn’t been such a remarkable man, then he might have left me the money and the house without the romance. Bother your romance, is what I say.”

“You’re a dear,” she affirmed, and she held up her hands—and very pretty hands they were. “But you have no soul.”

“If that’s what you call soul,” I answered, “I’m glad I haven’t.”

When we got back to Mr. Paine, I began at him again.

“Now let me clearly understand about those conditions. Do you mean to say that I’m to stop in the house all alone?”

“You may have a companion—who must be a woman.”

“I’ll be your companion! Do let me be your companion, Pollie!”

I looked at Emily, who stood in front of me with flushed cheeks and eager eyes; as pretty a picture as you could wish to see.

“Done!” We shook hands upon it. “I only hope you won’t have too much romance before you’ve been my companion long.”

“No fear of that! The more there is the more I’ll like it.”

I was not so certain. She spoke as if she were sure of herself. But, for my part, I felt that it remained to be seen. I went on:

“What was that about being in before nine?”

“You are never to sleep out of the house. You are always to be in it before nine at night, and never to leave it before nine in the morning.”

“That’s a nice condition, upon my word!” I turned to Emily. “What do you think of that? It’s worse than Cardew & Slaughter’s.”

“It does seem rather provoking. But”—there was a twinkle in her eye—“there may be ways of getting out of that?”

“What was that about no man being allowed in the house?”

“No man, under any circumstances, is to be allowed to cross the doorstep; nor, indeed, is anyone, except the lady you have chosen to be your companion.”

“But what about my Tom?”

“Your—Tom? Who is he?”

“Mr. Tom Cooper is the gentleman to whom I am engaged to be married.”

“I am afraid that, by the terms of the will, no exception is made even in his favour.”

I did not answer. But I told myself that we would see about that. If, as Emily hinted, there were ways of getting the better of one condition, it should not be my fault if means were not found to get the better of the other too.

Almost immediately afterwards we started for the house; all three of us again in the four-wheeler which had been waiting for us the whole of the time. I wondered who was going to pay the fare. It would make a hole in my fifteen shillings.

CHAPTER VII.
ENTERING INTO POSSESSION.

It was Mr. Paine who settled with the cabman. It had not struck me that we had been passing through an over-savoury neighbourhood; we drew up in front of a perfectly disreputable-looking house. Not that it was particularly small; there were three storeys; but it looked so dirty. And if there is one thing I cannot stand it is dirt. I could easily believe that no one had lived in it for twenty years; it was pretty plain that the windows had not been cleaned for quite as long as that.

“Well,” I declared as I got out of the cab, “of all the dirty-looking places I ever saw! If no one is to be allowed to set foot inside except Emily and me, who do you suppose is going to clean those windows?”

“That, I am afraid, is a matter which you must arrange with Miss Purvis; the will makes no exception in favour of window cleaners.”

“Then all I can say is that that’s a nice thing.” I turned to Emily. “This is going to turn out a pretty sort of romance—charwomen is what we shall have to commence by being.”

“I’m not afraid of a little work,” she laughed.

I looked at the door.

“That writing on the label said that we were not to go into the house when anyone was looking. How are we going to manage that? Are you and the cabman to turn your backs?”

“I don’t think that that is necessary; this shall be an exception. After you’ve opened the door we’ll hand the luggage to you when you’re inside.”

Mr. Paine and the cabman were not by any means the only two persons who were looking. Our stoppage in front of No. 84 had created quite a wave of interest. People were watching us at doors and through windows, and a small crowd of children had gathered round us in a circle on the pavement. As it was out of the question for us to wait till all eyes were off us, I straightaway disobeyed at least one of the directions which were on the label.

What looked like an ordinary opening for a latchkey was in its usual place on the right hand side of the door, but when I slipped my key into that it turned round and round without producing any visible effect whatever. So I examined the other side. There, sure enough, so high up as to be almost beyond my reach, was what looked like a small dab of green paint. When I pushed the key against it it gave way. The key went into the apparently solid wood-work right up to the handle. I gave it an upward jerk; the door was open. However neglected the windows were, that lock seemed to be in good condition.