It was her real name, chosen by a misguided farm labourer, who, having heard a lecture on the Borgias, delivered at the parish hall, came away with a vague idea that the historical character who bore that name was a worthy creature. “I never did trust London and I never will. Have you had dinner, miss?” “Yes, I’ve had my dinner,” said Leslie, and looked at the clock. “I am expecting a man to call here at half-past ten, so, when you open the door to him, please don’t tell him that I’m out and not expected back for three weeks.” Lucretia made a little face. “Half-past ten’s a bit late for a gentleman visitor, miss. A friend of yours?” Leslie could never train her out of a personal interest in her affairs. In a way Lucretia was privileged. Her first memory was of the broad-faced Lucretia pushing a perambulator in which Leslie took the air. “Is it anybody we know, miss? Mr. Coldwell?” Leslie shook her head. “No,” she said, “he is a man who has just come out of prison.” Lucretia closed her eyes and swayed. “Good heavens!” she said in a hushed voice. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when you’d be having a convict up to see you at half-past ten at night! What about asking a policeman to stand by the door, miss?” “You’re much too partial to policemen,” said Leslie severely, and the big maid grew incoherent in her indignant protests. Half-past ten was striking from St. Martins-in-the-Fields when the doorbell rang, and Lucretia came in to her, eyes big with excitement. “That’s him!” she said melodramatically. “Well, let him in.” “Whatever happens,” began Lucretia, “I’m not responsible.” Leslie pointed to the door. He came so lightly up the stairs that she did not hear his steps. The door opened and Lucretia backed in. “The gentleman,” she said loudly, and cast an apprehensive glance at the stranger as she sidled out of the room and closed the door. Peter Dawlish stood where Lucretia had left him, his soft hat in his hand, glancing from the girl to the cosy room, a smile on his thin face. She saw now how shabbily dressed he was: his shirt was collarless, his boots gray with mud, the old, ill-fitting suit he wore stained and patched. “I warned you I was a scarecrow,” he said, as though he read her thoughts. “They gave me a beautiful prison-made suit at Dartmoor, but it didn’t seem the right kind of equipment with which to face a censorious world, so I swapped it for this.” She pushed a chair up to the fire. “Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Dawlish?” “‘Mr. Dawlish,’” he repeated. “That sounds terribly respectable.” “You may smoke if you wish,” she said, as he seated himself slowly, and again he smiled. “I wish, but I have not the wherewithal.” She hastily opened a drawer and took out a tin of cigarettes: “Thank you,” he said. He took the cigarette in his fingers and frowned. “That is certainly queer,” he said. “What is certainly queer?” she asked.