‘Well, my dear, I didn’t expect he was a lady;’ with which remark Mr. Jabez sat down and had his tea, utterly oblivious of the terrible contempt which spread itself over the features of his sister, who despised small jokes of any kind, and her brother’s small jokes most of all. CHAPTER VII. A CHAT OVER OLD TIMES. There is a quiet little road in St. John’s Wood which seems specially to have been designed for ladies and gentlemen of a retiring disposition, who wish for a peaceful arcadia at a convenient distance from trams, omnibuses, and railways. You turn out of the main thoroughfare to find yourself suddenly shut in between a double row of small villas, all well set back in high-walled gardens, and further protected from the gaze of the curious by luxuriant foliage. The Arcadian inhabitants of this out-of-the-world by-way—a by-way so narrow that a hansom cab can scarcely be driven down it without getting on to the kerb—seem to be slightly suspicious of visitors. The villas are constructed on a system of defence not unpopular during the middle ages. There is no room for a drawbridge or a moat, but this deficiency is supplied by a very high and solid garden gate, which effectually bars the progress of the attacking party—and not only his progress but his view. Over the tops of the trees in the front garden, if you stand well back on the opposite side, you may catch sight of the tops of the villa chimney-pots, but of the villas themselves you can see nothing. The garden gate affords you no better standpoint. It is a solid piece of woodwork, grim and forbidding as a prison door. If you knock and ring with the idea that the gate will be opened, and you will thus get a glimpse within, you are wofully mistaken. Your summons may be answered or not, as the case may be. If it is, a small wooden flap at the back of an iron grill is let down, and a face appears blocking up the aperture. The eyes of this face regard you carefully, and if these eyes fail to recognise you the lips move and request to know your business. If your explanation is satisfactory, you may be admitted; if it is not, up goes the wooden flap again with a bang, and silence reigns around. At the gate of one of these curious and secluded little villas, which by the inscription on the door-posts we learn is called ‘The Lodge,’ and by the brass plate on the door we find is inhabited by Dr. Oliver Birnie, there stands a gentleman whom we have seen before. He is a tall, good-looking fellow, very shabby about the clothes, and not particularly tidy about the hair and beard. The face which blocks up the little peephole of The Lodge is a female face of the domestic servant order, and it evidently regards the visitor with some suspicion. There has been a preliminary verbal passage of arms, and the female face is hot and angry-looking. ‘If you can’t tell me your name, I shan’t go and disturb master,’ say the lips.