“If anything does come I’ll send it on to you,” said Ben, who had been watching him closely. “Thanks,” said Fraser, pondering, and walked away with his eyes on the ground. He called in at the office as he passed it; the staff had gone, but the letter-rack which stood on the dusty, littered mantel-piece was empty, and he went into the street again. His programme for the evening thus suddenly arrested, he walked slowly up Tower Hill into the Minories, wondering what to do with himself. Something masquerading as a conscience told him severely that he ought to keep his promise to the errant Flower and go and visit Poppy; conscience without any masquerading at all told him he was a humbug, and disclaimed the responsibility. In the meantime, he walked slowly in the direction of Poplar, and having at length made up a mind which had been indulging in civil war all the way, turned up Liston Street and knocked at the Wheelers’ door. A murmur of voices from the sitting-room stopped instantly. A double knock was a rare occurrence on that door, and was usually the prelude to the sudden disappearance of the fairer portion of the family, while a small boy was told off to answer it, under dire penalties if he officiated too soon. This evening, however, the ladies had made their toilet, and the door was opened after a delay merely sufficient to enable them to try and guess the identity of the guest before the revelation. Poppy Tyrell opened it, and turned upon him eyes which showed the faintest trace of surprise. “Good evening,” said Fraser, holding out his hand. “Good evening,” said the girl. “Fine weather we’re having,” said the embarrassed ex-mate, “for June,” he added, in justification of the remark. Miss Tyrell assented gravely, and stood there waiting. It is probable that two members at least of the family would have been gratified by the disappearance of the caller then and there, but that Mr. Wheeler, a man of great density and no tact whatever, came bustling out into the passage, and having shaken hands in a hearty fashion, told him to put his hat on a nail and come in. “No news of the cap’n, I suppose?” he asked, solemnly, after Fraser was comfortably seated. “Not a word,” was the reply. The dock-foreman sighed and shook his head as he reflected on the instability of human affairs. “There’s no certainty about anything,” he said, slowly. “Only yesterday I was walking down the Commercial Road, and I slipped orf the curb into the road before you could say Jack Robinson.” “Nearly run over?” queried Fraser. Mr. Wheeler shook his head. “No,” he said, quietly. “Well, what of it?” enquired his son. “It might just as well have been the edge of the dock as the curb; that’s what I mean,” said Mr. Wheeler, with a gravity befitting his narrow escape. “I’m alwis telling you not to walk on the edge, father,” said his wife, uneasily.