Luck favoured me at last. One afternoon towards the end of the week, I was standing opposite the church, watching the half-dozen worshippers straggling into it, for one of its many services, listening to the irritating ding-dong of its bell, and wondering the noise was put up with, when suddenly Richard Scott came running up from the city train. Looking neither to the right nor the left, or he must inevitably have seen me, he made straight for a cross-road, then another, and presently entered one of a row of small houses whose lower rooms were on a level with the ground and the yard or two of square garden that fronted them. "Paradise Place." I followed Scott at a cautious distance. "Bevere lives there!" quoth I, mentally. Should I go in at once boldly, and beard him? While deliberating--for somehow it goes against my nature to beard anybody--Scott came striding out and turned off the other way: which led to the shops. I crossed over and went in quietly at the open door. The parlour, small and shabby as was Mrs. Mapping's in Gibraltar Terrace, was on the left, its door likewise open. Seated at a table, taking his tea, was Roger Bevere; opposite to him, presiding over the ceremonies, sat a lady who must unquestionably have been first-cousin to those damsels at the Bell-and-Clapper, if one might judge by the hair. "Roger!" I exclaimed. "What a dance you have led us!" He started up with a scarlet face, his manner strangely confused, his tongue for the moment lost. And then I saw that he was without his coat, and his arm was bandaged. "I was going to write to you," he said--an excuse invented on the spur of the moment, "I thought to be about before now, but my arm got bad again." "How was that?" "Well, I hurt it, and did not pay attention to it. It is properly inflamed now." I took a seat on the red stuff sofa without being invited, and Bevere dropped into his chair. The lady at the tea-tray had been regarding me with a free, friendly, unabashed gaze. She was a well-grown, attractive young woman, with a saucy face and bright complexion, fine dark eyes, and full red lips. Her abundant hair was of the peculiar and rare colour that some people call red and others gold. As to her manners, they were as assured as Miss Panken's, but a great deal pleasanter. I wondered who she was and what she did there. "So this is Johnny Ludlow that I've heard tell of!" she exclaimed, catching up my name from Bevere, and sending me a gracious nod. "Shall I give you a cup of tea?" "No, thank you," was my answer, though all the while as thirsty as a fish, for the afternoon was hot. "Oh, you had better: don't stand on ceremony," she said, laughing. "There's nothing like a good cup of tea when the throat's dry and the weather's baking. Come! make yourself at home." "Be quiet, Lizzie," struck in Bevere, his tone ringing with annoyance and pain. "Let Mr. Ludlow do as he pleases." And it struck me that he did not want me to take the tea.