She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on the way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed the end of Crowner’s Alley, she turned into that small by-way and knocked at the astrologer’s door. A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the summons, and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most faithful and credulous clients, invited her to step inside. Mrs. Gimpson complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white beard and small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to how to begin. “My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last. The astrologer nodded. “She—she wants to ask you about ’er husband,” faltered Mrs. Gimpson; “she’s going to bring a friend with her—a man who doesn’t believe in your knowledge. He—he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he wants to see what you say you know about him.” The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her carefully. “You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better tell me everything.” Mrs. Gimpson shook her head. “There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low, thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law. There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and forward as though dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—“there is something forming over you. You—or somebody—are hiding something from me.” [Illustration] Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair. “Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should be sacrificed for others.” Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was lost. “Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had finished. “He is an ingenious man.” “Isn’t it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And he is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of making mischief.” “He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping spitefully. “I can guarantee that.” “But it wouldn’t have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can’t help being cast away.” “True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don’t let a soul know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be so terrible that even _I_ may be unable to help you.” Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr. Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple from next door. “It’s a wonder he’s alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the old woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that cut on your head again, mate.” The obliging Mr. Boxer complied.