He measured the wine at table and counted the empty bottles, even the corks. It was his boast that in his big garden he could tell the absence of a flower. These he sent to market regularly, with the vegetables he grew and the peaches which ripened on the wall, and woe betide the unlucky gardener who had poached so much as a ripe apple from the orchard, for Harvey had an uncanny instinct which led him to the rifled tree. She smiled a little wryly at the recollection, and, having completed her change of costume, she went out, locking the door behind her. Her landlady watched her pass down the street, and nodded ominously. “Your lodger’s come back,” said a neighbour. “Yes, she’s come back,” said the woman grimly. “A nice lady she is--I don’t think! It is the first time I’ve ever had a crook in my house, and it’ll be the last. I am giving her notice to-night.” Unconscious of the criticism, Thalia boarded a bus which took her into the city. She got down in Fleet Street, went into the large office of a popular newspaper. At the desk she took an advertisement form, looked at the white sheet for a moment thoughtfully, then wrote: “Secretary.--Young lady from the Colonies requires post as Secretary. Resident-Secretary preferred. Small wages required. Shorthand and Typewriting.” She left a space for the box number, handed the advertisement across the counter, and paid the fee. She was back again in Lexington Street in time for tea, a meal which was brought up to her on a battered tray by her landlady. “Look here, Miss Drummond,” said that worthy person, “I’ve got a few words to say to you.” “Say them,” said the girl carelessly. “I shall want your room after next week.” Thalia turned slowly. “Does that mean I’ve got to get out?” “That’s what it means. I can’t have people like you staying in a respectable house. I’m surprised at you, a young lady as I always thought you were.” “Continue to think so,” said Thalia coolly. “I’m both young and ladylike.” But the stout landlady was not to be checked in her well-rehearsed indictment. “A nice lady you are,” she said, “giving my house a bad name. You’ve been in prison for a week. Perhaps you don’t think I know, but I read the newspapers.” “I’m sure you do,” said the girl quietly. “That will do, Mrs. Boled. I leave your house next week.” “And I should like to say----” began the woman. “Say it on the mat,” said Thalia, and closed the door in the choleric lady’s face. As it was now growing dark, she lit a kerosene lamp and occupied the evening by manicuring her nails, an operation which was interrupted by the arrival of the nine o’clock post. She heard the rat-tat at the door and the heavy feet of her landlady on the stairs. “A letter for you,” called the woman. Thalia unlocked the door and took the envelope from the landlady’s hand. “You had better tell your friends that you’re going to get a new address,” said the woman, loath to leave her quarrel half-finished.