This bright July afternoon, was the day upon which Dentham was due at 40, Beryle Square, to give his information regarding Adrian Lancaster's whereabouts, and Mrs. Bickles was seated in the kitchen, moralizing over a glass of ale, and the remnants of the frugal meal, which she dignified with the name of luncheon. Like most old people, she was very garrulous, and in default of a better listener, talked to herself when alone, so she ran no chance of interruption, but had it all her own way. "Victuals," moaned Mrs. Bickles, wiping her mouth after a drink of beer, "is that dear, as never was. I'm sure it costs a forting to buy as much as 'ud keep a cat alive, and as for summat to drink, what with their Billees in Parlymint, and their chargin's out of it, I might as well live in the Sara Desert." She sopped up the gravy on her plate, with a piece of bread, and immediately attacked the baker, from whom she had bought it, as an excellent object to rail at. "It's that heavy," said the lady viciously, referring to the bread, "as lead is feathers to it--on my stomick it lies like a pavin' stone, and the indigressings I suffers is nightmares in 'emselves. I'm getting as thin as a lamp-post--a shadder of the h'old days--ah well!" she concluded philosophically, finishing the beer, "it don't take much to fill a coffing as I'll soon be occipying." At this moment the front door-bell rang, and with a grumble at being disturbed at her meal, Mrs. Bickles took a large key in her withered claw, and crawled upstairs in an aggressive temper. "Why can't they holler down the airy," she whispered, pushing back the bolts from the door, "it's a policeman or a post, I know--what with 'urrying up and skipping down, my legs is ashaking like aspinalls." She unlocked the door, and threw it open, when, much to her surprise, Olive Maunders stepped inside, followed by a young gentleman dressed in an irreproachable tweed suit, with a flower in his button-hole and a smile on his face. Mrs. Bickles with many curtseys began to apologise for her delay in opening the door, when Olive cut her short in a peremptory manner. "What is the most presentable room in the house?" she asked, "I have come up on business, but leave again by the afternoon train." "The dorin-room's muffled up," explained Mrs. Bickles, in a thoughtful manner, "and the dinin' ain't fit to receive compingy--I won't say as what the best bedroom needs dustin', but I think the libery is most decent." "Very well, then, the library will do," replied Olive, walking towards it, followed by her escort, "and if anyone calls to see me in about an hour, show him in." "Yes, miss," said the charwoman, with many genufluxions, "but there ain't anythin' to eat." "I don't want anything, thank you," answered Olive, and disappeared with the gentleman into the library, leaving Mrs. Bickles looking after them in astonishment.