"Yes, sir," replied Dentham, and retreated. "Drinking, eh," he thought as he went to the pantry; "I wouldn't if I were you--you might let out something about that gentleman whose stick you collared--oh, he give it to you--yes, I daresay--my gracious, what a wicked old chap he is, to be sure." When he had placed the wine on the table and poured out a glass for his master, he waited a moment, and then spoke. "I beg pardon, sir, but might I ask leave to-morrow for a couple of hours?" "What for?" asked his master abruptly. "I've got to go into Town, sir--to see a doctor; I ain't well--perhaps you could do something, sir?" "No; I don't practise medicine. Go into Town, if you like, but mind you're back again in two hours." "You can depend upon me, sir," said Dentham quietly, and then sneaked out of the room, chuckling to himself. "He don't practise medicine, don't he--why, I don't believe he's a doctor at all--well, I've got what I wanted, and if I put the police on to the old cove he won't like it." Here Mr. Dentham made a pause, struck with a brilliant idea. "I'll get the money for putting the police on to him," he said in a satisfied tone, "then I'll come home and tell him of his danger if he pays me well--so I'll make money on both sides, and they can fight it out between them--that's what I call philosophy." At all events, it was a very paying philosophy, and Mr. Dentham passed a happy night, dreaming of the golden harvest he would reap by betraying his master to Olive Maunders, and then by telling the doctor the lady's plans. Chapter X. Teddy Rudall's Ideas Number Forty, Beryle Square, was a handsome-looking Town residence, but, the owners now being away from London, it had rather a desolate appearance. The boxes of brilliant flowers, that had preserved a many-coloured fringe outside the windows, had all been removed, and, the shutters being up, the house had a lonely look, which was infinitely dreary. The old woman, who looked after it in the absence of its owner, was a grimy-looking party of unprepossessing appearance, addicted to the wearing of a crushed crape bonnet, a withered-looking black dress, and a large apron which had once been white. She made a daily tour of inspection through all the deserted rooms, and cherished dire suspicions of crafty burglars hiding behind doors and under couches. Mrs. Bickles was the name of this ancient damsel, but, as a matter of fact, she had never been married, but assumed the appellation which she thought was more in keeping with her dignity.