"Yes," he agreed waggishly: "it takes two to play it properly. Now, look here, my dear," he added with an abrupt return to business; "I'll talk to him. You just tell me where he is." "Oh, no, sir," Miss Popkiss returned resolutely; "you just leave him to me. I'll do the talking." But her interviewer did not seem content, for reasons of his own, that the matter should be taken out of his hands. "Now just let me see him, there's a dear," he urged coaxingly. "Do, there's a little darling," he pleaded, becoming somewhat unreasonably affectionate. "I'll put some salt on his tail." "Please, no; I'd rather you didn't, sir," returned Miss Popkiss with decision, as though feeling quite competent to perform the condimentary operation herself. "All in the way of business," the visitor persisted, rubbing his stubby hands together with anticipatory gusto. Then, before the young lady could realize it, one of the stumpy arms had stolen round her waist. "Give me a kiss and tell me where to find him, and I'll knock the stuffing out of the rascal," he whispered insinuatingly. But Miss Popkiss was not so easily got round. "Don't, sir! What would father say?" she protested with a vigour which was likewise included in the action with which she released herself; an action performed with such adroitness as to give the impression that this was owed to its being frequently called for. "Where is he, my sweetie?" persisted the curious one, in no wise abashed by his repulse. Next moment the question was answered by a crash, as the table was overturned, and there rose, struggling with the hampering folds of its cover, the irate form of Mr. Thomas Sparrow. CHAPTER II With a vicious kick at the encumbering and undignified table-cover, Mr. Sparrow, green with passion, advanced upon his supposed traducer, who backed away in a composite attitude of protest, authority, and apprehension. "Oh, Tom!" cried Miss Popkiss ruefully, but Mr. Sparrow had no eyes for her just then. "Scoundrel, am I? Rascal, am I?" he hissed at the retreating stranger. "I'll show you. I'll give you----" The other man had backed, by an oversight, into the corner and stood at bay, with an ugly look in his eyes and a thick-set hand stretched out in front of him. "Don't you touch me," he exclaimed warningly, "an officer of the law in the execution of his duty." The words had a certain effect on Mr. Sparrow, since his threatening fist remained in the air. "What do you want wi' me?" he demanded, with a quiver in his voice which was, perhaps, not altogether the result of righteous anger. "You are Percy Peckover?" the man suggested. "You are a liar!" was the ready retort. "I am Thomas Sparrow." "Yes," corroborated Miss Popkiss, with a remorseful sob; "he is my Tom Sparrow."