That afternoon he spent in the neighbourhood which Ligsey knew best. He talked with carmen and van boys, little old women who kept tiny and unremunerative shops, and the consequence of all his oblique questionings was that he made a call in Little Calais Street, where lived an unprepossessing young lady who had gained certain social recognition--her portrait would appear in the next morning’s newspapers--because she had been engaged to the missing man. She had, in fact, walked out with him, amongst others, for the greater part of a year. Miss Rosie Loop did not suggest romance; she was short, rather stout, had bad teeth and a red face; but for the moment she was important, and might not have seen Mr. Reeder but for the mistaken idea she had that he was associated with the press. “Who shall I say it is?” asked her blowsy mother, who answered the door. “The editor of _The Times_,” said Mr. Reeder without hesitation. In the stuffy little kitchen where the bereaved fiancée was eating bread and jam, Mr. Reeder was given a clean Windsor chair, and sat down to hear the exciting happening of the previous night. “I haven’t told the press yet,” said Rosie, who had a surprisingly shrill voice for one so equipped by nature for the deeper tones. “He come last night. I sleep upstairs with mother, and whenever he used to anchor off the crik he used to come ashore, no matter what time it was, and throw up a couple of stones to let me know he was here. About ’arf past two it was last night, and lord! it gave me a start.” “He threw up the stones to let you know he was there?” suggested Mr. Reeder. She nodded violently. “And was it Mr. Ligsey?” “It was him!” she said dramatically. “I wouldn’t go to the window for a long time, but mother said ‘Don’t be such a fool, a ghost carn’t hurt yer,’ and then I pulled up the sash and there he was in his old oilskin coat. I asked him where he’d bin, but he was in a ’urry. Told me not to get worried about him as he was all right.” “How did he look?” asked Mr. Reeder. She rolled her head impatiently. “Didn’t I tell yer it was the middle of the night? But that’s what he said--‘Don’t get worried about anything’--and then he popped off.” “And you popped in?” said Mr. Reeder pleasantly. “He didn’t have a cold or anything, did he?” Her mouth opened. “You’ve seen him? Where is he?” “I haven’t seen him, but he had a cold?” “Yes, he had,” she admitted, “and so would you ’ave if you ’ad to go up and down that river all day and night. It’s a horrible life. I hope he’s going to give it up. He’s bound to get some money if he comes forward and tells the police the truth. It was very funny, me thinkin’ he was dead. We’d bin to buy our black--hadn’t we, mother?” Mother offered a hoarse confirmation. “And all the papers sayin’ he was dead, an’ dragging the river for him, an’ that Captain Attymar. He used to treat Ligsey like a dog.” “He hasn’t written to you?” She shook her head. “He was never a one for writing.”