‘Now, I daresay you think you’ve been and gone and done a very clever thing,’ he said, when Lucius had unbosomed himself; ‘but I can just tell you you’re on the wrong tack—a good hundred knots out of your course. That old party isn’t in the robbery; and as to the pison, it’s not for me to argue with a professional gent like you; no sorter should alter his crepidam, as we say in the Classics; but I wouldn’t mind laying even money that the pison is only your fancy. You’ve been worriting yourself about this blessed business till you’ve got nervous, so you goes and sniffs at the physic, and jumps at the conclusion that it’s poisoned.’ ‘I have not jumped at any conclusion,’ replied Lucius. ‘My opinion is supported by an infallible test.’ He told Mr. Otranto that he wanted to find a thoroughly honest man and woman, who would take the place of the Winchers at Cedar House—a man who would act as night watchman, and a woman who would perform such trifling domestic duties as were needed. Mr. Otranto, who had minions of all kinds at his beck and call, did know of just such a couple—an ex-policeman, who had left the force on account of an accident that had lamed him, and a tidy body, the ex-policeman’s wife. If Mr. Davoren wished, they should be at Cedar House in two hours’ time. ‘Let them meet me at the gate at three o’clock,’ said Lucius. ‘I must go round among my patients in the mean while.’ His day’s work still waited to be done, and it was long past twelve—dinner-time in the Shadrack district. He had to endure reproachful looks from some of his patients, but bore all with perfect good-temper, and did his very best for all. Happily the people believed in him, and were grateful for all the good he had done among them. At three o’clock he was at the iron gate, where he found Mr. Magsby, the ex-policeman, and his wife—a comfortable-looking young woman with a bundle and a baby, for which latter encumbrance Lucius had not bargained, and for which Mrs. Magsby duly apologised. ‘Which Mr. Otranter may not have told you, sir, as I couldn’t leave the baby behind, but she’s as good a little dear as ever drew breath, and never cries, and in a large house will be no ill-convenience.’ ‘Perhaps not, if she never cries,’ said Lucius, ‘but if she does cry, you must smother her, rather than let her voice be heard up-stairs.’ And then he touched the small cheek kindly with his finger, and smiled upon the little one, after a fashion which at once won Mrs. Magsby’s heart. Mr. Magsby’s lameness was little more than a halt in his walk, and, although sufficient to disable him as a public servant, was no hindrance to him as a night-watchman. Altogether Lucius decided that the Magsbys would do. He inducted them in the gloomy old kitchen and the room with the presses, where Mr. and Mrs. Wincher’s turn-up bedstead yawned disconsolate and empty, and where there were such bits of humble furniture as would suffice for the absolute needs of life.