She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into the room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she searched his face. “You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered and can understand. Don't be afraid. Tell me.” And he told her--he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to and fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round her narrow shoulders. “And in spite of that you love him?--You're like a woman, Peter. You love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. And you refuse to think he's bad?” “He's not really,” said Peter. “The world's not been good to him.” “Not really!” She spoke reflectively, as though she groped beneath the words. “No, we're never bad really--only seem bad to other people till they make us seem bad to ourselves.--Yes, you can bring him.” But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace's help, and Mr. Grace had been so candid in saying that “'e weren't worf it.” When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn't there. He had waited an hour before he saw Cat's Meat crawl out of the traffic. “Well?” said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge. He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the account of the part played by Grace's policeman. “'Oly smoke! 'Fraid, was 'e?--But wot yer tellin' me h'all this for? H'out wiv it?” “I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the Misses Jacobite.” Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. “Cawn't be done. H'I wash me 'ands of 'im. Plottin' ag'in the law. Too daingerous.” “Mr. Grace,” asked Peter, softly, “who's afraid now?” “H'I'm not. Me afraid o' Grice's young man! Was that wot yer was h'insinooating?” “But aren't you?” “No, I ain't.” “Then prove it.” “'Ow?” “By doing what I've asked you.” Mr. Grace stared between Cat's Meat's ears, twisting a straw in his mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. “D'yer see that? The 'oss is a-listenin'. 'E ain't much ter look h'at, but 'e's won'erful h'intelligent. When h'I'm drunk 'e just walks by h'every pub and pays no h'attention to my pullin'. 'E's like a mother, that 'oss is, ter me. 'E's more kind than a darter, which ain't sayin' much.” “Well?” “Well wot? Oh, yes. H'am I goin' to 'elp yer stink-pot of a h'uncle? Ter be frank wiv yer, I h'am.” Cat's Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. “See that? 'E likes h'adwentures. Won'erful h'intelligent h'animal, but not much ter look h'at!” With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out. “Yer a nice old cup o' tea,” growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, “a reg'lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do--yer oughter sign the pledge. 'Ope yer ain't got much luggage; me keb ain't as strong as it were.”