And after that he sang a grand old German “Alleluja!” letting out his magnificent power until the room echoed, and his audience thrilled and rocked, intoxicated with enthusiasm, mightily growling out the Royal Salute in various keys of their own, as Wiggie swept them away to the Table of the Great Rent-Auditor of All. The voice beat at Lancaster’s brain, dragging at a lost memory. Wigmore was a bit of a puzzle all round. He had no relations that one ever heard of, and no home. He was a professional singer, yet one never seemed to come across his name, in spite of his undeniable gift. Perhaps he was one of the unlucky, to whom no roads open. Certainly there was little of the blatantly successful artist about his slight, tired figure and unassuming manner. Yet it was surely genius that was swinging them all out of their narrow anchorages on that flood of sound. And only Brack, suddenly fearful and cold, felt the irony of that “Alleluja!” on the marshmen’s lips, singing their Easter anthem before ever the agony and the grave were passed. They fell upon Wiggie in a body after that, and clumped him heavily on the back until he gasped, and told him it was “champion” and “reet as a bobbin,” and “fit to beat Holliday’s Royal bull!” until Bluecaster had to rescue him by giving the final toast, “To our next merry meeting!” drunk by Brack with shaking lips. Old Simon presented an unsolicited testimonial. “There’s them as _can_ sing an’ _waint_ sing!” he pronounced emphatically, with a scathing eye on Brack, “an’ the de’il tak’ ’em fur a lock o’ snirpin’ dew-nowts! An’ theer’s them as _can’t_ sing an’ _dew_ sing--an’ neea thanks tull them, neyther--but niver did I hear the likes o’ yon!” Lanty shook the singer by the hand, and said, “Miss Shaw will be pleased to hear of _this_, anyhow!” with nothing in his voice but the heartiest liking, and Wiggie met it instantly. There was never again between them a shadow of any kind. At the door, Harriet waited in the float. It was already dark. The short January day was over, and as Wiggie shoved Stubbs up the step, he was glad that he could not see her face. A moment later, gathering that the kindred object was already fast asleep, he asked for a lift home, but Harriet suspected him and snapped refusal. “It’s a long way to walk!” he remonstrated sadly, and so convincingly that she yielded, thinking he meant to try. Holding on to Stubbs as they trotted steadily through the dark, he asked suddenly why she had come herself instead of sending the man. “Because this is _my_ job, in spite of Hamer!” she answered abruptly. “I’ve got to see Stubbs through, whatever he does. He’s only a poor exhibit as a father, but he’s all I’m likely to have, and if he chooses to drink himself to death it’s up to me to stand the racket.” She pulled into the hedge. “Isn’t that the Watters car?”