An hour later he entered the Hammersmith Post Office and telephoned to the Red Widow. "Any news, Ena?" he asked as he sat in one of the boxes. "Yes. Augusta spoke to me half an hour ago. I’m going round to Lancaster Gate at eleven. She’s taken ill. A pity, isn’t it?" "Sorry to hear that!" he replied in a grim voice. "I’ll see you at Pont Street at seven—eh?" "Yes. I’ll run round," Ena answered. "I’ve just been through to Lilla. I wonder what can be the matter with poor Augusta? A chill, perhaps—eh? Poor lady! But I hope it isn’t serious." "I hope not. Good-bye for the present." And then the honest, hard-working collector of insurance premiums of the poor of Hammersmith went forth upon his daily round, trudging from street to street, knocking or ringing at the doors of the insured. He made a call in Dalling Road, just beyond the railway arch, and then, proceeding up the thoroughfare, consulted his pocket account-book. Close to Chiswick High Road he made a further call, where he signed the book for the weekly premium. Presently he halted at a small and very poor-looking house in the Devonport Road, a turning off the Goldhawk Road, where he rang at the door. At the windows were curtains blackened by the London smoke, for the whole neighbourhood was one of genteel poverty, but of despair. An ugly, but cleanly dressed old woman answered, and, seeing him, knit her brows. "Ah! Come in, Mr. Boyne!" she said, and the collector of premiums entered. Five minutes later he came out, the old woman following him. He was evidently not himself, for usually his was a kindly nature towards the poor. But that day his manner was rough and uncouth. Something had upset him. "Well, I’m sorry, Mrs. Pentreath," he said in a loud voice. "But, you see, it isn’t in my hands. I’m only a humble servant of the company—an ill-paid servant who gets just a living wage upon the premiums he collects. You’ve had time to pay, you know, and if you can’t pay up this week—well, the policy must lapse. You’ve been given notice of it for six weeks. The company has been very lenient with you. Other companies wouldn’t have been so lenient." "But my poor Bertha! She’s come home from service, and is in bed with consumption. I have to look after her and try to give her the nourishment Doctor James orders. It isn’t my fault that I haven’t paid you. It really isn’t." "I can’t help that," replied Boyne roughly. "Your insurance policy must lapse—that’s all. "And after fifteen years that I’ve paid regularly each week!" exclaimed the poor woman in dismay. "Well, it isn’t my fault, I tell you. I’m not the company," was his harsh reply. "And my poor Bertha so ill. It’s cruel—it’s inhuman, I say!" she shouted in a shrill voice. Boyne only smiled grimly. He was not the kindly man of other days. "It probably is so," he replied, turning away from the door. "But it’s our insurance business; and business is business, after all!