Eliphalet was somewhat hard put to it to recognise a single personality under so many alternative names. He gathered that Mr. Knight was well placed in the esteem of his protégée, and on that account suffered mildly jealous pangs. These he was not too subtle to betray—when Mornice would tactfully remark: “The boy is frightfully anxious to meet you. He just thrilled when I told him I was your sort-of-daughter.” “Yes, yes, that is very likely,” said Eliphalet, ironically; but he was none the less pleased by these nosegays of speech. So the whole cast of “The Night Cry” were entrained for Chester, where in due course they arrived. Mr. Knight was waiting on the platform, and sprang to open the door of Eliphalet’s compartment. “Here’s The Boy,” cried Mornice. “Now, Spud, be polite, and shake hands with Mr. Cardomay.” Ronald Knight was naturally polite, and did as he was bid, with “It’s a very great pleasure to meet you, sir.” While Mornice, in the background, gratuitously supplied, “I call him Daddy fatherums, and sometimes Pummy.” Eliphalet frowned a little. An old man does not care to have his pet name hung on the line for all to behold. “Oh, she’s boasting,” said Ronald, with some neatness, who, reversely, as a young man, was charmed to have been called “Spud” in public. “Mornice tells me she has asked you to find us some accommodations,” said Eliphalet. “Oh! I forgot to,” gasped Mornice, in instant contrition. Then: “Hold out your hand, Morny!” Ronald laughed as she inflicted punishment upon herself. “I know a few addresses, Mr. Cardomay. Or perhaps you will stay at the hotel?” “I prefer rooms—they are more homely.” A couple of addresses were written on the back of an envelope (“No, not that one.” Eliphalet recognised Mornice’s writing, and smiled), and armed with these, he and she and their more portable assets climbed into a cab. Ronald was a shade disappointed at being left behind, but he had told Mornice they would want to see her at the office by five o’clock. To which she replied: “I’ll be there at four, then, and you can do me a tea beforehand. By-oh, Ron,” as they rattled over the cobbles of the station yard. “Now,” said Eliphalet, “we have a choice between Mrs. Devon and Mrs. Montmorency. Which shall it be?” Mornice voted in favour of “The West Countrie” as being less high-sounding than Montmorency. Accordingly they addressed themselves to Mrs. Devon’s knocker. Alas! but the good lady’s rooms were already engaged. Yes, she had heard of Mrs. Montmorency, but could claim no actual acquaintance. “I think,” she hazarded, “she’s been abroad a good deal. But there! it doesn’t do to say anything, and there isn’t any reason to suppose she won’t make you comfortable—but still! That’s the house at the corner—Number Six. The one with the funny blinds.” So they crossed the road and attacked the bell of Number Six, and after a decent pause the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with an apron but no cap.