“I was glad to, sir,” she responded after an instant of surprise, for Mr. Haworth so seldom noticed anything. “Indeed I was, sir, for she’s a sweet little body. If you’ll excuse me saying it, it must be awful for ’er with that man.” Haworth turned, surprised, and looked at the maid. “What do you know about him?” he asked. “Well, I—I can see ’im, sir, an’ that’s something!” Haworth was silent. “And besides, cook tells me the cook before _her_ was saying things about a terrible person used to live here, until one day in the middle of the night ole Mr. Cripps threw ’im out o’ the house an’ kicked ’im down the front steps; an’ when I was putting towels in their bathroom yesterday I heard ’im telling ’er how different things was when ’e lived here, so I can’t but think it’s ’im.” Haworth looked silently at her for a moment and then said: “Yes. Well, tell me when they’ve finished breakfast. I want to see them about their trunks.” Some two hours later the maid came down and told him. But when he went upstairs Augustus had left the house and Mrs. Findlay had gone to her room. Haworth went up and knocked at the door. She opened it. “Oh!” she said with a little gasp. “I was afraid you were angry!” “Angry?” “Yes.” She was looking down, but soon raised her eyes to his. Suddenly she thought of the disordered room and stepped out into the hallway beside him, closing the door after her. “What made you think so?” he asked, after his eyes had rested on her in silence a moment. “You didn’t come to breakfast at all!” “Oh, _that_!” Haworth smiled. “I nearly always don’t.” “Don’t you have any?” “Yes, but when I’m down working Hulda brings it to me.” “Oh!” She seemed relieved. “I was afraid it was because you—because we were here.” He shook his head a little and muttered, “No.” “It’ll be so some time,” she said, scarcely above a whisper. “You’re mistaken about that,” he told her gently. She looked at him with eyes showing gratitude, yet with it the painful conviction that she was right. “Did Mr. Findlay take the checks with him?” he asked. She looked at him, not understanding. “The checks for the trunks,” he explained. “Oh! No, he—he didn’t!” “There’s a truckman over at Jamaica Plain,” Haworth said. “He often hauls for me—that is, he used to. He’ll have the trunks here by noon. So if you’ll give the checks——” “I—I don’t know where they——” She stopped for an instant, then turned and looked him in the face. “There aren’t any checks,” she said in a low voice. Haworth was silent, his calm gaze upon her. “There aren’t any checks—or trunks—or _anything_!” Having made this sweeping confession, she stood guiltily before him as though she’d acknowledged complicity in a bank robbery. “But you have some things—_somewhere_!” he finally asked in a gentle voice, trying not to hurt her. She shook her head a little without looking up. “You see—you see, we _did_ have some trunks. We _had_ them—but——”