all three, in his mind, in a net of peace and goodwill.  He saw the family quarrel as something inevitable, touching, absurd—­the work of a maleficent destiny which he might somehow undo and exorcise by the magic act of washing-up, to be followed by other acts of a more diplomatic and ingenious nature.  And now the dull, distant symptoms of Mr. Haim on the stairs suddenly halted him at the very outset of his benignant machinations.  He listened.  If the peace of the world had depended upon his washing-up he could not have permitted himself to be actually seen in the role of kitchen-girl by Mr. Haim—­so extreme was his lack of logic and right reason.  There was a silence, a protracted silence, and then Mr. Haim unmistakably came down the basement stairs, and George thanked God that he had not allowed his impulse to wash-up run away with his discretion, to the ruin of his dignity.

Mr. Haim, hesitating in the kitchen doorway, peered in front of him as if at a loss.  George had shifted the kitchen lamp from its accustomed place.

“I’m here,” said George, moving slightly in the dim light.  “I thought I might as well make myself useful and clear the table for you.  How is she going on?” He spoke cheerfully, even gaily, and he expected Mr. Haim to be courteously appreciative—­perhaps enthusiastic in gratitude.

“Mrs. Haim is quite recovered, thank you.  It was only a passing indisposition,” said Mr. Haim, using one of his ridiculously stilted phrases.  His tone was strange; it was very strange.

“Good!” exclaimed George, with a gaiety that was now forced, a bravado of gaiety.

He thought: 

“The old chump evidently doesn’t like me interfering.  Silly old pompous ass!” Nevertheless his attitude towards the huffy landlord, if scornful, was good-humoured and indulgent.

Then he noticed that Mr. Haim held in his hand a half-sheet of note-paper which disturbingly seemed familiar.  “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Cannon?” Mr. Haim demanded, advancing towards the brightness of the lamp and extending the paper.  He was excessively excited.  Excitement always intensified his age.

The offered document was the letter which George had that morning received from Marguerite.  The missive was short, a mere note, but its terms could leave no doubt as to the relations between the writer and the recipient.  Moreover, it ended with a hieroglyphic sign, several times repeated, whose significance is notorious throughout the civilized world.

“Where did you get that?” muttered George, with a defensive menace half formed in his voice.  He faltered.  His mood had not yet become definitive.

Mr. Haim answered: 

“I have just picked it up in the hall, sir.  The wind must have blown it off the table in your room, and the door was left open.  I presume that I have the right to read papers I find lying about in my own house.”