They walked all the way--it is some distance from Cadogan Place to Ladbroke Grove. There was not much conversation--what there was was not of a particularly cheerful kind. The day was warm. The lady was tall, the gentleman short. Miss Macleod was a first-rate pedestrian; the Rev. Alan was not good at any kind of exercise. By the time they reached their journey's end he was in quite a pitiable plight. He was bedewed with perspiration, and agitated beyond measure by the rather better than four miles-an-hour pace which his aunt would persist in keeping up. Pomona Villa proved to be a little house which stood back at some distance from the road. Just as they reached it the door was opened, shut again with a bang, and a gentleman came hastening out of the house as though he were pressed for time. He was a tall, portly person, with very red whiskers, and a complexion which was even more vivid than his whiskers. He was attired in what might be called recollections of clerical costume, and was without a hat. He appeared to be very much distressed either in body or in mind. Just as he laid his hand on the handle on one side of the gate, Miss Macleod grasped it on the other. Brought in this way unexpectedly face to face, he stared at the lady, and the lady stared at him. "She's at it again!" he cried. "Sir!" exclaimed Miss Macleod. She drew herself up. "I beg your pardon." The gentleman on the other side of the gate produced a very dirty pocket-handkerchief, and mopped his head and face with it. "I thought it was a friend of mine." "Is this Pomona Villa?" asked Miss Macleod. The bare-headed man looked up and down, and round about, and seemed as though he were more than half disposed to say it wasn't. But as the name was painted over the top bar of the wooden gate, within twelve inches of the lady's nose, he perhaps deemed it wiser to dissemble. "What--what name?" he stammered. "I've come about the apostle spoons." "The apostle spoons! Oh!" The bare-headed man looked blank. He added in a sort of stage aside--"Letters only." "Perhaps you will allow me to enter." Miss Macleod did not wait for the required permission, but pushed the gate open, and entered. Her nephew followed at her heels. The bare-headed man stared at the Rev. Alan, and the Rev. Alan at him--one seemed quite as confused as the other. "Can I see the spoons?" continued Miss Macleod. "Eh--the fact is--eh--owing to distressing family circumstances--eh--it is impossible--" What was impossible will never be known, for at that moment the door was opened, and a woman appeared. "If you please, mum, Miss Vesey says, will you walk in? She's upstairs." Miss Macleod walked in, her nephew always at her heels. The bare-headed man stared after them, as though he did not understand this mode of procedure in the least.