What leads me to this conclusion? you ask. Instinct, my dear. It is an important quality in animals; why not in human beings? What possible motive _can_ Richard Manx have in spreading such a report? you ask next. A just Heaven only knows, my dear. But I will find out his motive, as I am a living and loving woman. You are not acquainted with Richard Manx, you may say. Nor am I. But is it certain that it is his true name? You are not the only person in the world who has concealed his true name. You concealed yours for an innocent reason. Richard Manx may conceal his for a guilty one. Then think of me, known simply as Becky. Why, my dearest, the world is a perfect medley! Shall I tell you something else about him? My dear, he paints. I hear you, in your unsophisticated innocence, exclaim, "O, he is an artist!" He is, in one sense. His canvass is the human skin. He paints his face. What will you ask now? Of course, your question will be, "How on earth do you know that he paints his face?" My dear, here I am your superior. Trust a woman to know a natural from an artificial colour. These few last questions trouble your soul. "Does _she_ paint, then?" you mutter. "No, my dear," I answer, "my complexion _is my own_!" Twice have I seen Richard Manx to-day, and I have not avoided him. I looked at him. He looked at me. "You are Becky," he said; and if ever a foreigner spoke like an Englishman, Richard Manx did when he said, "You are Becky." "Yes, if you please, sir," I replied, coyly. "You are a--what you call maid-of-all work here," he said. Maid-of-all-work! What do real, genuine foreigners know of English maids-of-all-work? The very use of the term was, in my judgment, an argument against him. "Yes," I replied. "And a very pretty maid-of-all-work," he said, with a smile. "There's missus calling!" I cried, and I ran downstairs. In that short interview I had convinced myself that he painted, and I had made up my mind that he wore a wig. Think of that, my dear! Our innocent, timid, humble young man lodger, with a false head of hair! I blush. The meaning of all this is, that Richard Manx is no chance lodger. He came here designedly. He has not paid his rent. It is part of his design. He would be more likely to attract attention as a man with plenty of money than as a man with none. There are so many poor people in the world, and they are comparatively so unimportant? He has spread a rumour that the house he lodges in and the next house are haunted. It is part of his design. To bring the houses into disrepute will cause people to avoid them, will lessen the chance of their being occupied. The better opportunity for him to carry out, without being observed, any scheme he may have in his false and wicked mind.