“And every man as he looks at me will have on his retina not a picture of me, but a picture of what went on in that house in Smith Street.” “Oh, go and buy a serviceable epidermis,” cried Herold. Argument was useless. So Risca worked like a mole at anonymous journalism in his shabby lodgings where Lilias and Niphetos were suggested only by a mangy tabby who occasionally prowled into his sitting-room, and Arachne presided, indeed, but in the cobwebs about the ceiling in the guise which she had been compelled to take by the angry god when the world was young. Only when his attendance at the office of the weekly review was necessary, such as on the day when it went to press, did he mingle with the busy world. “If you go on in this way,” said Herold, “you 'll soon have as much idea of what's going on in London as a lonely dog tied up in a kennel.” “What does it matter,” growled John, “to any of the besotted fools who read newspapers, provided I bark loud enough?” There was one thing going on in London, however, in which he took a grim interest, and that was the convalescence of the little maid-of-all-work who had been taken back, a maimed lamb, to the cheerless fold where she had been reared. Thither he went to make inquiries as soon as he returned from Southcliff-on-Sea. He found the Orphanage of St. Martha at Willesden, a poverty-stricken building, a hopeless parallelogram of dingy, yellow brick, standing within a walled inclosure. There were no trees or flowers, for the yard was paved. His ring at the front door was answered by an orphan in a light print dress, her meagre hair clutched up tight in a knob at the back. He asked for the superintendent and handed his card. The orphan conducted him to a depressing parlour, and vanished. Presently appeared a thin, weary woman, dressed in the black robes of a Sister of Mercy, who, holding the card tight in nervous fingers, regarded him with an air of mingled fright and defiance. “Your business?” she asked. Despite the torture of it all, John could not help smiling. If he had been armed with a knout, his reception could not have been more hostile. “I must beg of you to believe,” said he, “that I come as a friend and not as an enemy.” She pointed to a straight-backed chair. “Will you be seated?” “It is only human,” said he, “to call and see you, and ask after that unhappy child.” “She is getting on,” said the Sister superintendent, frostily, “as well as can be expected.” “Which means? Please tell me. I am here to know.” “She will take some time to recover from her injuries, and of course her nerve is broken.” “I'm afraid,” said John, “your institution can't afford many invalid's luxuries.” “None at all,” replied the weary-faced woman. “She gets proper care and attention, however.” John drew out a five-pound note. “Can you buy her any little things with this? When you have spent it, if you will tell me, I 'll send you another.”