“Always been my desire,” he said benevolently, “to treat every one alike, and I trust I’ve succeeded.” “You’ve done it, sir. No mistake about that.” “I hope I have never shown anything in the shape of favouritism.” “There again, sir, you’re right.” “I am anxious to express the desire that nothing but what I may call kindly thoughts will be entertained concerning me when I leave the duties I have so long carried out,” said Inspector Richards elaborately, “and there’s no objection to you mentioning it, as freely as you like, that I shall be glad to see old friends at any hour, and any time, from half-past eight in the morning till eleven o’clock o’ night at three-two-seven, Hampstead Road.” A few of the junior members were under the impression that the words suggested liberal and cheerful hospitality; those who knew Mr. Richards better warned them not to expect too much from old T. R. T. R., they said, had never yet given away a ha’porth of anything, and acquaintance with human nature induced them to believe that he, at his age, was not likely to begin. The one person who had known T. R. the longest found herself swiftly disillusioned. Harriet was to live with her father over the shop in Hampstead Road, and to keep house for him; her wedding was to take place when Mr. Richards found it possible to make other arrangements, and not until then. “I shall look after the shop,” he said commandingly. “That’s my part of the work. All you’ve got to do is to see to the cooking, and the cleaning up, the washing on Mondays, the ironing later on, the boots, the garden at the back, and so on and so forth. You sweep out the shop first thing in the morning, but apart from that, you’re not to show your face there. Understand?” “Yes, father.” “Don’t give me the trouble of speaking twice,” he went on in his official manner. “I’ve been used to managing much bigger affairs, without any trouble, and this will be mere child’s play. I look on it more as a hobby than anything else. Worst thing that can happen to a man of my industrious nature is to have nothing to occupy his mind. Go in now, and don’t you ever dare come out ’less I call you.”