But Van Hupfeldt stood up, saying that he would go. Putting on his coat, he added: "Mrs. Carter, I have been followed from London by a man who, I fancy, will present himself here presently when I am gone. He wishes to know more about my affairs than he has a right to know. If he comes, I have a reason for wishing you to receive him politely, and to keep him in talk as long as he will stay. But, of course, you won't satisfy his curiosity in anything that concerns me. In particular, be very careful not to give him any hint that my name was Strauss during my wife's lifetime." "You may rely on me," said Mrs. Carter, in the secret voice of an accomplice. "Now, little one, to bed," said Van Hupfeldt, a thin and lanky figure in his long overcoat, as he bent with kisses over the boy in Mrs. Carter's arms. Five minutes after he was gone David was at the farmhouse door. He, too, would like a glass of milk. "You're welcome, I'm sure," said Mrs. Carter. "Step inside." His first glance was at the clock, for he did not wish to lose the quarter past eight train, since that would mean the losing of his present chance of tracking Van Hupfeldt to his address. But the clock reassured him. He indolently took it for granted that it was more or less near the mark, and it pointed to twenty minutes to eight. He would thus have time to strike up an acquaintance with Mrs. Carter, as a preliminary to closer relations in the future. "And where is baby?" he asked. "Oh, you know about him?" said Mrs. Carter. "He's in bed, to be sure." "I saw him in your arms as I was passing up the road half an hour ago." "What, you passed along here? I didn't notice you." "I came up from the station. Now, this is something like good milk. You have a nice little farm here, too. Do you manage it yourself?" "Yes; my husband died a twelvemonth come May." "It must be hard work with baby, too, as well, especially if you've got any youngsters of your own." "How can you know that this baby isn't my own?" "Oh, as to that, I'm not quite so much in the dark about things. Why, I'm living in the very flat which its poor mother occupied. I know its aunt, I know its father--" "Oh, well, you seem to know a lot. What more do you want?" "I only know the father by sight--that is, if he was the father who was in here just now. I take it he was." "Ah, there, now, you're asking." "Oh, there's no secret, Mrs. Carter. Mr. Johann Strauss is a well-known man." "Is that his name--Strauss? Well, well, live and learn." "That's his name, and that's his writing, Mrs. Carter!"--words which David uttered almost with a shout, as he caught an envelope out of the coal scuttle, and laid it on the table, pointing fixedly at it. Mrs. Carter was startled by his sudden vehemence. The envelope was one directed to her in the same flourishing writing which Dibbin had long since shown David as that of Strauss.