Mr. Cripps had a fad for bells from his room to everyone concerned. But it was the chauffeur he wanted this time, and he yelled to him to get the car (it was 1910 by now, and of course he had one) and take the blankety-blank carcass of putrid hogwash at the bottom of the front steps an’ dump it in the road—anywhere—any street—any road! Just get the blankety-blank-blank-blank out of this place and his clothes with him—that was all he asked! “Here, you!” he shouted in a general way to the maids and cook, “pitch those clothes out on top of him where Henry can find ’em—that pile in front of his door! Take ’em all—every damn stitch—you understand? Throw out everything he’s got! Don’t leave a damn thing he ever touched!” (To the chauffeur) “And when you’ve dumped the dirty loafer, and his putrid stuff on top of him, a couple of miles down the road, you come back and take me to town! North Station is what I want! I’ll be gone two or three days, and if any of you people allow that dirty, foul-mouthed, booze-soaked bum to crawl back into this house while I’m away I’ll fire the lot of you—take that from me!” As in many instances, I can give you, in this one, only an approximate idea of the language used. I had the testimony of four persons who were witnesses of the scene, and the only danger is that it lacks the proper amount of intensity and force. If it isn’t clear what happened, just take it that Augustus Findlay was thoroughly and effectually kicked out of the house. The servants, without exception, liked old man Cripps. You could almost say they were fond of him. Their opinion of Augustus I needn’t mention; so there wasn’t the slightest danger that he’d get into the house again even if they had to take turn and turn about in night watches to make sure of it. The maids attended to the throwing out of the clothes with a spirit that could only have been born of the great enjoyment they took in the work, and the chauffeur did no less when it came to his part of the job. After which he transported the old gentleman to the North Station, getting him there in time for the morning train to Montreal. * * * * * Those three faded letters from Iris Heminway sent old Mr. Cripps to Canada in the hope of finding her and her husband and boy, and persuading them to come and live with him. But after an hour on the train he began to realize what an extremely off chance he had of succeeding in his quest, with the meager amount of information in his possession. They might have moved to another town—they might even be dead. Many things can happen in eighteen years. But now he’d started, he was going on with it! Well, he should think so!