[Illustration:  “Mr. Catesby made a few inquiries.”]

“I don’t know ’im,” said the landlord.

“I had an idea that he lived at No. 5,” said Catesby.

The landlord shook his head.  “That’s Mrs. Truefitt’s house,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Catesby pondered.  “Truefitt, Truefitt,” he repeated; “what sort of a woman is she?”

“Widder-woman,” said the landlord; “she lives there with ’er daughter Prudence.”

Mr. Catesby said “Indeed!” and being a good listener learned that Mrs. Truefitt was the widow of a master-lighterman, and that her son, Fred Truefitt, after an absence of seven years in New Zealand, was now on his way home.  He finished his glass slowly and, the landlord departing to attend to another customer, made his way into the street again.

He walked along slowly, picturing as he went the home-corning of the long-absent son.  Things were oddly ordered in this world, and Fred Truefitt would probably think nothing of his brotherly privileges.  He wondered whether he was like Prudence.  He wondered——­

“By Jove, I’ll do it!” he said, recklessly, as he turned.  “Now for a row.”

He walked back rapidly to Bashford’s Lane, and without giving his courage time to cool plied the knocker of No. 5 briskly.

The door was opened by an elderly woman, thin, and somewhat querulous in expression.  Mr. Catesby had just time to notice this, and then he flung his arm round her waist, and hailing her as “Mother!” saluted her warmly.

The faint scream of the astounded Mrs. Truefitt brought her daughter hastily into the passage.  Mr. Catesby’s idea was ever to do a thing thoroughly, and, relinquishing Mrs. Truefitt, he kissed Prudence with all the ardour which a seven-years’ absence might be supposed to engender in the heart of a devoted brother.  In return he received a box on the ears which made his head ring.

“He’s been drinking,” gasped the dismayed Mrs. Truefitt.

“Don’t you know me, mother?” inquired Mr. Richard Catesby, in grievous astonishment.

“He’s mad,” said her daughter.

“Am I so altered that you don’t know me, Prudence?” inquired Mr. Catesby; with pathos.  “Don’t you know your Fred?”

“Go out,” said Mrs. Truefitt, recovering; “go out at once.”

Mr. Catesby looked from one to the other in consternation.

“I know I’ve altered,” he said, at last, “but I’d no idea—­”

“If you don’t go out at once I’ll send for the police,” said the elder woman, sharply.  “Prudence, scream!”

“I’m not going to scream,” said Prudence, eyeing the intruder with great composure.  “I’m not afraid of him.”

Despite her reluctance to have a scene—­a thing which was strongly opposed to the traditions of Bashford’s Lane—­Mrs. Truefitt had got as far as the doorstep in search of assistance, when a sudden terrible thought occurred to her:  Fred was dead, and the visitor had hit upon this extraordinary fashion of breaking the news gently.