“I think she is a trifle better,” he admitted, in a half-hearted way. “She won’t part with the servant; says she really hasn’t time and strength enough for housework. But she admits that a servant is inconsistent with her theories, and she looked quite happy when she added that she really believed I was beginning to see things in the right light. I’ve told her plainly that I’ll have no hypocrites in my home. Silver--her aunt left her some--flowers, Worcester tea-things, I wouldn’t stand. She murmured something about it being a duty with every citizen to keep up the graces of life, but she yielded in the end. She was crying a bit as she wrapped the silver--beautiful Georgian stuff--away in chamois-leather bags. “I said that a drawing room gave the very lie to her theories. She’s turned the key of that room. “The servant has given notice; of course she thinks the spoons are pawned. Lucinda is upset. But I said cheerily that it was so nice to be indifferent, to be supported by the consciousness of a worthy mission. I said that simplicity was the great thing. I suggested that we should sell the furniture--giving the proceeds to the Socialistic cause--and go to a boarding house. They board you in Gower Street for twenty-five shillings a week--with a reduction, no doubt, on married couples. I said that she would then be quite free from housekeeping and would be able to throw more soul into her political work. You should have seen her face! I think she’s beginning to be sorry that she converted me. Converts always go too far. “But she’s not cured,” he concluded solemnly. “She went off this morning to Brentford, where some member of her party has his committee room.” “Perhaps we had better play our trump card,” I said. “What time will she be back?” “About nine.” “Very well. I’ll look round with Smithers and Arnold. It’s a job that Jimmy would enjoy, but he’s so lantern-jawed she’d know him at once.” At nine Gully, Smithers, Arnold, and I were in Lucinda’s drawing room, smoking very strong tobacco and drinking hot gin and water; it gave me heartburn for nearly a week. But it made a good steam and fume; effect was what we wanted. We all four looked--well, rough. A bristly chin and no collar alters a man immensely. As luck would have it, neither Smithers nor I had shaved that morning; nor the morning before, in my case. Arnold wore a false beard. Why do absconding criminals take the trouble to disguise themselves--decent, middle-class criminals who are accustomed to razors and clean linen? A bristly chin and a neck without a collar would do the whole business, without trouble or expense. If, added to that, the criminal gets his “portrait” in the paper, he’s safe.