He did not dare go into the street for the third time, and he was hovering feverishly near the window when he saw the governor, Mr. Garvace, that is to say, the managing director of the Bazaar, walking along the pavement after his manner to assure himself all was well with the establishment he guided. Mr. Garvace was a short stout man, with that air of modest pride that so often goes with corpulence, choleric and decisive in manner, and with hands that looked like bunches of fingers. He was red-haired and ruddy, and after the custom of such _complexions_, hairs sprang from the tip of his nose. When he wished to bring the power of the human eye to bear upon an assistant, he projected his chest, knitted one brow and partially closed the left eyelid. An expression of speculative wonder overspread the countenance of Mr. Polly. He felt he must _see_. Yes, whatever happened he must _see_. "Want to speak to Parsons, Sir," he said to Mr. Mansfield, and deserted his post hastily, dashed through the intervening departments and was in position behind a pile of Bolton sheeting as the governor came in out of the street. "What on Earth do you think you are doing with that window, Parsons?" began Mr. Garvace. Only the legs of Parsons and the lower part of his waistcoat and an intervening inch of shirt were visible. He was standing inside the window on the steps, hanging up the last strip of his background from the brass rail along the ceiling. Within, the Manchester shop window was cut off by a partition rather like the partition of an old-fashioned church pew from the general space of the shop. There was a panelled barrier, that is to say, with a little door like a pew door in it. Parsons' face appeared, staring with round eyes at his employer. Mr. Garvace had to repeat his question. "Dressing it, Sir--on new lines." "Come out of it," said Mr. Garvace. Parsons stared, and Mr. Garvace had to repeat his command. Parsons, with a dazed expression, began to descend the steps slowly. Mr. Garvace turned about. "Where's Morrison? Morrison!" Morrison appeared. "Take this window over," said Mr. Garvace pointing his bunch of fingers at Parsons. "Take all this muddle out and dress it properly." Morrison advanced and hesitated. "I beg your pardon, Sir," said Parsons with an immense politeness, "but this is _my_ window." "Take it all out," said Mr. Garvace, turning away. Morrison advanced. Parsons shut the door with a click that arrested Mr. Garvace. "Come out of that window," he said. "You can't dress it. If you want to play the fool with a window----" "This window's All Right," said the genius in window dressing, and there was a little pause. "Open the door and go right in," said Mr. Garvace to Morrison. "You leave that door alone, Morrison," said Parsons. Polly was no longer even trying to hide behind the stack of Bolton sheetings. He realised he was in the presence of forces too stupendous to heed him. "Get him out," said Mr. Garvace.