“Here comes Tony,” exclaimed my uncle, on the following Saturday night; “time for him to show something for his money. If there is anything I call unfair, it is to pay for a thing before you get it. He will prove to his own satisfaction that he has worked it out, of course. When you were at Ludred about Sam’s wedding, you should have fixed your aunt to something. Your fifty pounds is nearly gone; and she never gave you another penny. I don’t see why I should pay for it like this. And the French stuff is in the market already. What’s the good of being an Englishman?” “And what’s the good of being an Englishwoman?” I answered, for I thought him too unjust, as he had not paid a sixpence yet. “Unless she is allowed to dress sometimes, and be told that she is twenty years younger than she is. Aunt Parslow looked fit to be a bridesmaid quite. And she will come down handsomely, when she has paid her bills. She looked at her cheque-book, and she said as much as that.” “Then let her do it;” said my uncle shortly. “I suppose this spy-fellow will expect his supper. Eat he can, and no mistake. The smaller a man is, the more he holds. You had better run down to the butcher’s.” Mr. Tonks might have heard him, but he made no sign, only coming up quietly with his tall hat on, and taking a chair which stood opposite to ours; for the weather being friendly, and the summer at its height, we were sitting out of doors, beneath the old oak tree. Then he nodded to us, put his hat upon the grass, and waited for our questions. “Well, Tonks, what have you been up to all this time? You have sent us no letter, so I suppose you have done little?” Thus spoke my uncle, looking at him rather sternly. I also looked at him very closely, and was surprised to find a certain strength of goodness in his face, which I had not observed, when I first saw him. His face was thin and narrow, and his cheeks drawn in, and his aquiline nose had had a twist to one side. But the forehead was high and broad, and the lips and chin full of vigour and strong resolution. And the quiet gray eyes expressed both keenness and resource. “A thing of this kind takes a lot of time,” he said; “and if you gents are not satisfied, you had better say so. I take no man’s money, when he thinks it thrown away.” “Hoity, toity, man, don’t be so hot,” my uncle replied, showing much more heat himself; “we have not said a word. We are waiting for you.” “I have not done much. It was not to be expected. I have cleared the ground for further work. It depends upon you, whether I go on.” “Yes, to be sure! Go on, go on. We give you your head, and we are as patient as Job. I suppose you have found out where that scoundrel is.”