“Look here—­” said the overwrought Hardy.

“Samson Wilks,” interrupted Mr. Swann, “number three, Fullalove Alley, at home Fridays, seven to nine, to the daughter of his late skipper, who always visits him on that day.  Don’t thank me, Hardy, in case you break down.  She’s a very nice girl, and if she had been born twenty years earlier, or I had been born twenty years later, or you hadn’t been born at all, there’s no saying what might not have happened.”

“When I want you to interfere in my business,” said Hardy, working sedulously, “I’ll let you know.”

“Very good,” replied Swann; “still, remember Thursdays, seven to nine.”

“Thursdays,” said Hardy, incautiously; “why, you said Fridays just now.”

Mr. Swann made no reply.  His nose was immersed in the folds of a large handkerchief, and his eyes watered profusely behind his glasses.  It was some minutes before he had regained his normal composure, and even then the sensitive nerves of his partner were offended by an occasional belated chuckle.

Although by dint of casual and cautious inquiries Mr. Hardy found that his partner’s information was correct, he was by no means guilty of any feelings of gratitude towards him; and he only glared scornfully when that excellent but frivolous man mounted a chair on Friday afternoon, and putting the clock on a couple of hours or so, urged him to be in time.

The evening, however, found him starting slowly in the direction of Fullalove Alley.  His father had gone to sea again, and the house was very dull; moreover, he felt a mild curiosity to see the changes wrought by time in Mr. Wilks.  He walked along by the sea, and as the church clock struck the three-quarters turned into the alley and looked eagerly round for the old steward.

The labours of the day were over, and the inhabitants were for the most part out of doors taking the air.  Shirt-sleeved householders, leaning against their door-posts smoking, exchanged ideas across the narrow space paved with cobble-stones which separated their small and ancient houses, while the matrons, more gregariously inclined, bunched in little groups and discussed subjects which in higher circles would have inundated the land with libel actions.  Up and down the alley a tiny boy all ready for bed, with the exception of his nightgown, mechanically avoided friendly palms as he sought anxiously for his mother.

[Illustration:  “Fullalove Alley.”]

The object of Mr. Hardy’s search sat at the door of his front room, which opened on to the alley, smoking an evening pipe, and noting with an interested eye the doings of his neighbours.  He was just preparing to draw himself up in his chair as the intruder passed, when to his utter astonishment that gentleman stopped in front of him, and taking possession of his hand shook it fervently.

“How do you do?” he said, smiling.

Mr. Wilks eyed him stupidly and, releasing his hand, coyly placed it in his trouser-pocket and breathed hard.