"Polishing the candlesticks, father," she answered coolly. "Is there anything else you would prefer me to do?" Not being ready with a suggestion, Mr. Popkiss merely fell back upon a snort of sagacity, and turned his portly person preparatory to waddling back to the bar. "Come here, I want you," he commanded vaguely by an after-thought, in the hope that by the time he had reached his beery citadel a task might suggest itself to his sluggish invention. "All right, father," Miss Popkiss replied cheerily, as with more clatter than was absolutely necessary, she replaced the candlestick on its shelf. Then she took a round-about route to the door, preferring it possibly on account of the variety its closer view of the courtyard afforded. As she was about to pause at the window the man crouching outside suddenly raised himself and looked in with a knowing grin. Miss Popkiss, suppressing a start, deftly changed the amorous look she had prepared into one of haughty displeasure, and swept in a fine carriage of scorn from the room. Whereupon the man surmounted the sill and entered. He was a curiously nondescript sort of person, with a short, round face, a short nose, short hair, short beard, short arms, short fingers and short legs. His manner also was short, even jerky. He looked round the room with a sharpness and vigilance which seemed quite thrown away upon its commonplace and unsuspicious contents, and absolutely futile in that they failed to detect Mr. Sparrow who lay snug underneath the table. But then self-constituted keenness is usually ignorant of what is going on under its nose. "No stranger about," the man muttered. Then he took a telegram from the side pocket of his light overcoat, where it had lain as though ready to his hand for consultation. "My wire from the Yard is explicit. Yet," he mused, as he methodically folded the telegram and dropped it back into his pocket, "if he left the train at Faxfleet he ought to be here by this. It might take him an hour and a half, or two hours. I must find out." He walked softly towards the door. "Better not let old Popkiss see me," he murmured, "he talks too much. But," he chuckled knowingly, "there's the pretty daughter, if I can catch her that's the dodge; I don't know what Sarah would say, but it's all in the way of business." From which observation it is plain that æsthetic shortcomings do not necessarily prevent a man from fancying himself irresistible. Peeping cautiously through the doorway he saw Miss Mercy alone in the bar, perfunctorily at work upon a task of supererogation which the paternal wisdom had set her. "Hist!" he signalled, and when she looked up in disdain he beckoned mysteriously and withdrew.