“No wonder I have to paint,” she said, “when I am so worn out with poverty and hard work—not like the lovely Mrs. Q., who has nothing to do all day except spend the money that I ought to have. I’ll tell you what it is, my fine fellow: you had better be careful, or I’ll have that pretty cuckoo out of her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, like the monkey did to the parrot.” “Perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to business. I am in no mood for this sort of thing, Edith,” and he turned round, shut the window, and drew the blind. “Oh, all right; I’m agreeable, I’m sure. Stop a bit, though—I must have a brandy-and-soda first. I am as dry as a lime-kiln, and so would you be if you had to sing comic songs at a music hall for a living. There, that’s better,” and she put down the empty glass and threw herself on to the sofa. “Now then, tune up as much as you like. How much tin have you brought?” Mr. Quest sat down by the table, and then, as though suddenly struck by a thought, rose again, and going to the door, opened it and looked out into the passage. There was nobody there, so he shut the door again, locked it, and then under cover of drawing the curtain which hung over it, slipped the key into his pocket. “What are you at there?” said the woman suspiciously. “I was just looking to see that Ellen was not at the key-hole, that’s all. It would not be the first time that I have caught her there.” “Just like your nasty low ways again,” she said. “You’ve got some game on. I’ll be bound that you have got some game on.” Mr. Quest seated himself again, and without taking any notice of this last remark began the conversation. “I have brought you two hundred and fifty pounds,” he said. “Two hundred and fifty pounds!” she said, jumping up with a savage laugh. “No, my boy, you don’t get off for that if I know it. Why, I owe all that at this moment.” “You had better sit down and be quiet,” he said, “or you will not get two hundred and fifty pence. In your own interest I recommend you to sit down.” There was something about the man’s voice and manner that scared the female savage before him, fierce as she was, and she sat down. “Listen,” he went on, “you are continually complaining of poverty; I come to your house—your house, mind you, not your rooms, and I find the _debris_ of a card party lying about. I see champagne bottles freshly opened there in the corner. I see a dressing gown on the sofa that must have cost twenty or thirty pounds. I hear some brute associate of yours out in the street asking you to lend him another ‘fiver.’ You complain of poverty and you have had over four hundred pounds from me this year alone, and I know that you earn twelve pounds a week at the music hall, and not five as you say. No, do not trouble to lie to me, for I have made enquiries.” “Spying again,” said the woman with a sneer.