“Oh yes, sir; and a sweet dear creature his wife is; Mrs. Holdsworth as was. Hers is a sad history. She lived at a place called Southbourne--maybe you know it--it’s an hour’s walk from here; and I was told her story by Mrs. Campion, as used to keep a greengrocer’s shop in that village, and served most of the gentry about. She--I’m speaking of Mrs. Conway--lost her husband at sea, and married the present gentleman two or three years afterwards. Mrs. Campion said she was driven to it by want o’ the bare necessaries of life,” added the woman in a subdued voice. Holdsworth was silent. “I don’t think,” continued the woman, “that she leads a very happy life. We sometimes has a chat together when we meet out o’ doors, and she’s the civilest, sweetest young thing I ever knew. But,” she exclaimed, catching herself up, “all this is no business of mine; and I hope, sir, you’ll think none the worse of me for gossiping about strangers’ affairs. I was strivin’ to answer your questions, sir.” “Thank you,” said Holdsworth, rising, but keeping his back to the window. “Can you receive me to-morrow?” “Oh yes, sir; at any time you’re pleased to come.” “My name is Hampden. I shall sleep to-night at the ‘Hanwitch Arms.’ Here are a couple of sovereigns, which will serve you as a security for my taking your rooms. I leave myself in your hands, and have no doubt I shall be comfortable.” The woman took the money with a courtesy, thinking to herself that she had never met with a more polite and considerate gentleman. Holdsworth left the house. He cast a swift glance at the villa with the plate upon the railing, and then hurried towards the town. CHAPTER XXV. IN THE ELLESMERE ROAD. Holdsworth spent the greater part of the evening in writing a letter to Mr. Sherman. At twelve o’clock next day he was an inmate of Mrs. Parrot’s house in the Ellesmere Road. In his walk to the lodgings he had met only strange faces, one or two of which looked after him, struck, perhaps, by his keen fugitive glance, his slow pace that stole along the ground, and his depressed head, as though there were a shame in his heart that made the daylight painful. Mrs. Parrot fussed about him for some time, and tired him with an account of the articles she had purchased for him. Her memory was slow, and her capacity of reckoning very indifferent; hence it took her twenty minutes to account for the expenditure of twelve shillings. Happily, it was her mother’s day for walking in the garden, and Holdsworth could see the old lady--a mere wisp of a figure, in ancient black satin reaching to her ankles and clinging to her legs, a nose like the Duke of Wellington’s, and a chin like Punch’s--hobbling along a gravel walk, looking with afflicting agitation around her, and coughing like a rattle, as a signal to her daughter, who, when she had done with her accounts, hurried out.