He had no difficulty in finding Mr. Bonamy’s house, which stood in the middle of the town, about halfway down Bridge Street. It was a substantial, respectable residence of brick, not detached nor withdrawn from the roadway. It had nothing aristocratic in its appearance, and was known by a number. Its eleven windows, of which the three lowest rejoiced in mohair blinds, were sombre, its doorway was heavy. In a word, it was a respectable middle-class house in a dull street in a country town—a house suggestive of early dinners and set teas. The rector felt chilled by its very appearance; but he knocked, and presently a maid-servant opened the door about a foot. “Is Mr. Bonamy at home?” he said. “No, sir,” the girl drawled, holding the door as if she feared he might attempt to enter by force, “he is not.” “Ah, I am sorry I have missed him,” said the clergyman, handling his card-case. “Do you know at what time he is likely to return?” “No, sir, I don’t,” replied the girl, who was all eyes for the strange rector; “but I expect Miss Kate does. Will you walk up-stairs, sir? and I will tell her.” “Perhaps I had better,” he answered, pocketing his card-case. Accordingly he walked in, and followed the servant to the drawing-room, where she poked the sinking fire and induced a sickly blaze. Left to himself—for Kate was not there—he looked round curiously, and as he looked the sense of disappointment which he had felt at sight of the house grew upon him. It was a cold, uncomfortable room. It had a set, formal look, which was not quaintness, nor harmony, and which was strange to the Londoner. It was so neat: every article in it had a place, and was in its place, and apparently never had been out of its place. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on the large centre table, but the rector thought they must be wax, they were so prim. There were other wax flowers—which he hated. He almost shivered as he looked at the four walls. He felt obliged to sit upright on his chair, and to place his hat exactly in the middle of a square of the carpet, and to ponder over the question of what the maid had done with the poker. For she had certainly not stirred the fire with the bright and shining thing which lay in evidence in the fender. He was in the act of rising cautiously with the intention of solving this mystery, when the door opened and the elder sister came in, Daintry following her. “My father is not in, Mr. Lindo,” Kate said, advancing to meet him, and shaking hands with him. “No; so I learned down-stairs,” he answered. “But I——” The girl—she had scarcely turned from him—cut him short with an exclamation of dismay. “Oh, Daintry, you naughty girl!” she cried. “You have brought Snorum up.” “Well,” said Daintry simply—a large white dog, half bull-dog, half terrier, with red-rimmed eyes and projecting teeth, had crept in at her heels—“he followed me.” “You know papa would be so angry if he found him here.”