He was given no reply to this. It was as if mention of Mr. Pennyquick's name placed him as very likely to be among the "come and go sort." "I had better be going, I think," he said, and this time got to his feet. "Well, I am sorry," the woman said again. "I'm sure I'm very sorry, and you know I can't say straight off where you'll get what you want for ten shillings. There's places, of course. But you know you don't look fit to go trudging round after them this time of night. Hadn't you better go just for the night somewhere? There's Mrs. Winter I think would take you for the night. She's at--" Mr. Wriford went to the door. "You needn't trouble," he said weakly. "It can't be by the night. I can only pay at the end of the week." The woman gave a little sound of dismay. "But--do you mean no money till then?" He nodded. That was what he meant--and must face. "But, dearie me, you won't find any will take you without deposit. They're very suspicious here, you know." "Well," said Mr. Wriford. "Well--" and with fingers as helpless as his voice began to fumble at the latch. "But where are you going?" "This handle," he said. "It's rather stiff." He took his hand from it as she came round the counter to him, then immediately caught at it again and supported himself against it. She saw the action and cried out in consternation. "Oh," she cried. "Why, you can't hardly stand, and going off nowhere! Why, you jus' can't. You'll have to stop." He asked wearily: "Stop! How can I stop?" "Why, ten shillings. That'll be all right. Our Essie, you know--" He could say no more than "Thank you. Thank you." "You'll come right along. We're just sitting down to supper. No, I'll just tell them first." He effected speech again as, with her last words, she went to the parlour door. "But deposit," he said, and recalled the phrase she had used. "Aren't you suspicious?" "Why, that can't be helped," she smiled back at him. "Our Essie, you know, she'd never forgive me if I sent you off like you are. Jus' sit down." He had scarcely taken a seat when she was back again and calling him from the threshold of the open parlour door. "That's all right. Come right along. You didn't give your name, did you?" "Wriford," and he reached her where she stood smiling. She turned within and announced him: "Well, here's our lodger. That's Mr. Bickers." A man of stature and of strength, once, this Hy. Bickers, Cert. Plumber. Bent now and stooping, but with something very strong, very confident in his face: lined and worn as his wife's, silvery as hers. Slightly whiskered, of white, otherwise clean shaven. A smoking-cap on his head. Little enough hair beneath it. In his face that same suggestion of a very happy secret happiness. "Expect you're tired," said Mr. Bickers and gave a warm hand-clasp. "And that's our Essie."