No reply being vouchsafed to this suggestion, he wrapped himself up in various rugs and then sat down suddenly before they could unwind themselves. Then, with a compassionate “click” to his horse, started up the road. Except for a few chance wayfarers and an occasional coffee-stall, the main streets were deserted, but they were noisy compared with Beaufort Street. Every house was in absolute darkness as the cab, with instinctive deference to slumber, crawled slowly up and down looking for No. 17. It stopped at last, and the mate, springing down, opened the door, and handing out the ladies, led the way up a flight of steps to the street door. “Perhaps you won’t mind knocking,” he said to Mrs. Tipping, “and don’t forget to tell the cap’n I’ve done this to oblige you because you insisted upon it.” Mrs. Tipping, seizing the knocker, knocked loud and long, and after a short interval repeated the performance. Somebody was heard stirring upstairs, and a deep voice cried out that it was coming, and peremptorily requested them to cease knocking. “That’s not Flower’s voice,” said Fraser. “Not loud enough,” said Miss Tipping. The bolts were drawn back loudly and the chain grated; then the door was flung open, and a big, red-whiskered man, blinking behind a candle, gruffly enquired what they meant by it. “Come inside,” said Mrs. Tipping to her following. “Ain’t you come to the wrong house?” demanded the red-whiskered man, borne slowly back by numbers. “I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Tipping, suavely; “I want to see Captain Flower.” “Well, you’ve come to the wrong house,” said the red-whiskered man, shortly, “there’s no such name here.” “Think,” said Mrs. Tipping. The red-whiskered man waved the candle to and fro until the passage was flecked with tallow. “Go away directly,” he roared; “how dare you come disturbing people like this?” “You may just as well be pleasant over it,” said Mrs. Tipping, severely; “because we sha’n’t go away until we _have_ seen him. After all, it’s got nothing to do with you.” “We don’t want anything to say to you,” affirmed her daughter. “Will—you—get—out—of—my—house?” demanded the owner, wildly. “When we’ve seen Capt’n Flower,” said Mrs. Tipping, calmly, “and not a moment before. We don’t mind your getting in a temper, not a bit. You can’t frighten us.” The frenzied and reckless reply of the red-whiskered man was drowned in the violent slamming of the street-door, and he found himself alone with the ladies. There was a yell of triumph outside, and the sounds of a hurried scramble down the steps. Mrs. Tipping, fumbling wildly at the catch of the door, opened it just in time to see the cabman, in reply to the urgent entreaties of the mate, frantically lashing his horse up the road. “So far, so good,” murmured the mate, as he glanced over his shoulder at the little group posing on the steps. “I’ve done the best I could, but I suppose there’ll be a row.”