"You always _was_ the kindest-hearted gentleman!" she sobbed. "You never _did_ object to being put upon, and you give away your toys that free that all the other children used to take advantage of you. But you didn't mind, sir, not you. Over and over agin have your blessed father said when he was alive, 'That boy'll never git along in the world, he's so soft!'" Mrs. Lemon's tears at this reminiscence flowed more freely. "I can't believe, sir, no, I can't believe as time has flown so quick since those happy, happy days!" The happy days referred to were, of course, the days of my childhood; and my father's prophecy, which I heard now for the first time, respecting my future, brought a contemplative smile to my lips. "Ah, sir," said Mrs. Lemon, with a sigh, "if we only knew when we was well off, what a lot of troubles we shouldn't have!" I nodded assent to this little bit of philosophy, and looked round the room, not dreaming that in the humble apartment I was to receive a clue to the mystery of the murder of pretty Lizzie Melladew. CHAPTER VI. I AM HAUNTED BY THREE EVIL-LOOKING OBJECTS IN MRS. LEMON'S ROOM. It was plentifully furnished: stuffed chairs and couch, the latter with a guilty air about it which seemed to say, "I am not what I seem;" a mahogany table in the centre, upon which was an album which had seen very much better days; ornaments on the mantelshelf, bounded on each corner by a lustre with broken pendants; a faded green carpet on the floor; two pictures on the walls; and on a small table near the window a glass case with an evil-looking bird in it. The pictures were portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Lemon in oil-colour. They appeared to have been recently painted, and I made a remark to that effect. "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Lemon, in a voice which struck me as being uneasy. "They was done only a few weeks ago." And then, as though the words were forced from her against her will, "Do you see a likeness, sir?" When she asked this question she was gazing at the portrait of herself. As a work of art, the painting was a shocking exhibition; as a likeness, it was unmistakable. "It is," I said, "your very image. Is the portrait of your husband--if that is your husband hanging there----" She interrupted me with a shudder. "_Hanging_ there, sir?" "I mean on the wall. It _is_ a picture of Mr. Lemon, I presume." "Yes, sir, it's him." "Is it as faithful a portrait as your own?" "It's as like him, sir, as two peas. Egscept----" but she suddenly paused. "Except what, Fanny?" "Nothing, sir, nothing," she said hurriedly.