“Dear me!” answered Brian, mechanically.  “How unfortunate!” He was not listening to Mrs. Sampson’s remarks.  He suddenly remembered an arrangement which Madge had made, and which up till now had slipped his memory.

“Mrs. Sampson,” he said, turning round at the door, “I am going to bring Mr. Frettlby and his daughter to have a cup of afternoon tea here, so you might have some ready.”

“You ’ave only to ask and to ’ave,” answered Mrs. Sampson, hospitably, with a gratified crackle of all her joints.  “I’ll make the tea, sir, an’ also some of my own perticler cakes, bein’ a special kind I ’ave, which my mother showed me. ’ow to make, ‘avin’ been taught by a lady as she nussed thro’ the scarlet fever, tho’ bein’ of a weak constitootion, she died soon arter, bein’ in the ‘abit of contractin’ any disease she might chance on.”

Brian hurried off lest in her Poe-like appreciation of them, Mrs. Sampson should give vent to more charnel-house horrors.

At one period of her life, the little woman had been a nurse, and it was told of her that she had frightened one of her patients into convulsions during the night by narrating to her the history of all the corpses she had laid out.  This ghoul-like tendency in the end proved fatal to her professional advancement.

As soon as Fitzgerald had gone, she went over to the window and watched him as he walked slowly down the street—­a tall, handsome man, of whom any woman would be proud.

“What an awful thing it are to think ’e’ll be a corpse some day,” she chirped cheerily to herself, “tho’ of course bein’ a great swell in ’is own place, ’e’ll ’ave a nice airy vault, which ’ud be far more comfortable than a close, stuffy grave, even tho’ it ’as a tombstone an’ vi’lets over it.  Ah, now!  Who are you, impertinence?” she broke off, as a stout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang the bell, “a-pullin’ at the bell as if it were a pump ’andle.”

As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby, did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried down the stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage her bell had received.

Mr. Gorby had Been Brian go out, and deeming it a good opportunity for enquiry had lost no time in making a start.

“You nearly tored the bell down,” said Mrs. Sampson, as she presented her thin body and wrinkled face to the view of the detective.

“I’m very sorry,” answered Gorby, meekly.  “I’ll knock next time.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” said the landlady, tossing her head, “me not ‘avin’ a knocker, an’ your ‘and a-scratchin’ the paint off the door, which it ain’t been done over six months by my sister-in-law’s cousin, which ’e is a painter, with a shop in Fitzroy, an’ a wonderful heye to colour.”

“Does Mr. Fitzgerald live here?” asked Mr. Gorby, quietly.

“He do,” replied Mrs. Sampson, “but ‘e’s gone out, an’ won’t be back till the arternoon, which any messige ’ull be delivered to ’im punctual on ’is arrival.”