Mark smiled--the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. "I had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience." "To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?" "Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir." "Have you forgotten me, Mark?" I asked, as he took up his cap to come with us. An instant's uncertain gaze; the candle was behind him, and my face in the shade. His own face lighted up with a glad light. "No, sir, that indeed I have not, I can never forget Mr. Johnny Ludlow. But you are about the last person, sir, I should have expected to see here." In the moment's impulse, he had put out his hand to me; then, remembering, I suppose, what his position was in the old days, drew it back quickly. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with the same honest flush that used to be for ever making a scarlet poppy of his face. But I was glad to shake hands with Mark Ferrar. "How are all your people at Worcester, Mark?" I asked, as we went down the street. "Quite well, thank you, sir. My old father is hearty yet, and my brother and sister are both married. I went down to see them last week, and stayed a day or two." The greatest change in Ferrar lay in his diction. He spoke as we spoke. Associating now with men of education, he had taken care to catch up their tone and accent; and he was ever, afloat or ashore, striving to improve himself. Ferrar opened Pym's door without knocking, dived down the step, for the houses were precisely similar, and entered the parlour. He and Pym occupied the same apartments in each house: the parlour and the little bed-room behind it. The parlour was in darkness, save for what light came into it from the street gas-lamp, for these shutters were not closed. Ferrar went into the passage and shouted out for the landlady, Mrs. Richenough. I thought it an odd name. She came in from the kitchen at the end of the passage, carrying a candle. A neat little woman with grey hair and a puckered face; the sleeves of her brown gown were rolled up to the elbows, and she wore a check apron. "Mr. Pym, sir?" she said, in answer to Ferrar. "He dressed hisself and went out when he'd swallowed down his tea. He always do go out, sir, the minute he's swallowed it." "Do you expect him back to-night?" questioned Jack. "Why yes, sir, I suppose so," she answered, "he mostly comes in about eleven." "Has any young lady been here this evening, ma'am?" blandly continued Jack. "With Mr. Pym?--or to inquire for him?" Mrs. Richenough resented the question. "A young lady!" she repeated, raising her voice. "Well, I'm sure! what next?" "Take care: it is our captain who speaks to you," whispered Ferrar in her ear; and the old woman dropped a curtsy to Jack. Captains are captains with the old landladies in Ship Street. "Mr. Pym's sister--or cousin," amended Jack.