"All right, but the eggs are up to you," he said. Inside his little den in Jubilee Place the improvement was no less marked than in his person and demeanor. There was not a spot on his little red-and-white checked table-cloth, his crockery shone, his bed was neatly made. He had faced the new situation and had ceased to mope. In my waistcoat pocket was a ring he had once given to Audrey Cunningham. Seeing his cheerfulness, I had not the slightest intention of reopening matters by telling him anything about that ring. If Audrey dropped rings as casually as he picked up pistols, very well; it was not my business to mar this cheery new beginning. "Lightly boiled, or how?" he said, my egg poised in a teaspoon over the saucepan on the gas-ring. "Yes--lightly boiled--anything," I replied. "Got any mustard for this ham?" That too he had, and he had taken care over the preparation of his jug of coffee. He was entirely the old Monty again. I don't know when I have enjoyed a lunch more, not even excepting the washing-up, which he insisted on doing the moment we had finished. "If there's one thing I loathe it's coming in to a lot of unwashed things," he explained. "Not a ha'porth of trouble once you get the habit." Then he showed me the work on which he was engaged. That too had energy and movement again. One small sketch I liked and bought on the spot--a little thing, neither black-and-white nor color, or both if you like--a crayon sketch of a couple of infants in the Flower Walk in Kensington Gardens, one of them with a shining round sixpenny balloon touched with a whiff of pink, the other with the doleful rag of one that had just exploded--the slightest, sweetest little bit of treasure-trove of the eye picked up in an afternoon's stroll. "But not the copyright," he stipulated with a quick sideways glance at me. "I might be able to reproduce." "Right; not the copyright," I agreed. I didn't mention it to him, in case it shouldn't come off, but I thought I might be able to help him with reproduction-rights. We have a good many side-shows on the _Circus_. Then, in the middle of turning over further sketches, he broke suddenly into a gesture of remembrance. "By the way--I knew there was something I wanted to tell you! A funny sort of thing happened the other day. You remember that police-sergeant or whatever he was, who came into Esdaile's place that night?" "He was an Inspector." "Inspector then. Well, I've seen him. Had a talk with him. Funny sort of talk too--I've been puzzled about it ever since. I was loafing round Sloane Square. There's a flower-woman there, interesting type of head--this sort----" He turned over one of the sketches and on the back of it his pencil flowed into a few swift assured lines. ("That's rather like her, by the way," he said in parenthesis, "regular cast-iron gypsy.")