"Oh, very well," interrupted the _Schnorrer_, in low, indifferent tones. After that there was a dead silence. The _Schnorrer_ majestically folded some silk stockings and laid them in the box. Upon them he packed other garments in stern, sorrowful _hauteur_. Grobstock's soul began to tingle with pricks of compunction. Da Costa completed his task, but could not shut the overcrowded box. Grobstock silently seated his weighty person upon the lid. Manasseh neither resented nor welcomed him. When he had turned the key he mutely tilted the sitter off the box and shouldered it with consummate ease. Then he took his staff and strode from the room. Grobstock would have followed him, but the _Schnorrer_ waved him back. [Illustration: "TILTED THE SITTER OFF THE BOX."] "On Friday, then," the conscience-stricken magnate said feebly. Manasseh did not reply; he slammed the door instead, shutting in the master of the house. Grobstock fell back on the bed exhausted, looking not unlike the tumbled litter of clothes he replaced. In a minute or two he raised himself and went to the window, and stood watching the sun set behind the trees of the Tenterground. "At any rate I've done with him," he said, and hummed a tune. The sudden bursting open of the door froze it upon his lips. He was almost relieved to find the intruder was only his wife. "What have you done with Wilkinson?" she cried vehemently. She was a pale, puffy-faced, portly matron, with a permanent air of remembering the exact figure of her dowry. "With Wilkinson, my dear? Nothing." "Well, he isn't in the house. I want him, but cook says you've sent him out." "I? Oh, no," he returned, with dawning uneasiness, looking away from her sceptical gaze. Suddenly his pupils dilated. A picture from without had painted itself on his retina. It was a picture of Wilkinson--Wilkinson the austere, Wilkinson the unbending--treading the Tenterground gravel, curved beneath a box! Before him strode the _Schnorrer_. Never during all his tenure of service in Goodman's Fields had Wilkinson carried anything on his shoulders but his livery. Grobstock would have as soon dreamt of his wife consenting to wear cotton. He rubbed his eyes, but the image persisted. He clutched at the window curtains to steady himself. "My Persian curtains!" cried his wife. "What is the matter with you?" "He must be the Baal Shem himself!" gasped Grobstock unheeding. "What is it? What are you looking at?" "N--nothing." Mrs. Grobstock incredulously approached the window and stared through the panes. She saw Wilkinson in the gardens, but did not recognise him in his new attitude. She concluded that her husband's agitation must have some connection with a beautiful brunette who was tasting the cool of the evening in a sedan chair, and it was with a touch of asperity that she said: "Cook complains of being insulted by a saucy fellow who brought home your fish." "Oh!" said poor Grobstock. Was he never to be done with the man?