This man was reading a newspaper, following the words and sentences in a sort of low comfortable growl, like the purring of a huge cat by the fire; Mrs. Siggs was stitching away busily, in a sharp energetic fashion, which denoted that her temper had been ruffled; the girl was sitting, with her eyes pensively fixed on the fire, and her hands clasped in her lap. The room appeared so very comfortable, and the Inspector had so clearly made up his mind to devote the remainder of that day to pleasure, leaving the more serious business of his visit until the morrow, that he advanced his head a little into the room, and enquired whether he might come in. “You look so very cosy here, you know,” he said, “and I’m quite sure you couldn’t be hard on a lonely man, who has nobody to talk to,” he added, in an appealing tone. “Depends a good bit on what you want to talk about,” said Mrs. Siggs quickly, without glancing up from her work. “We don’t want no Law ’ere, my friend.” The man who was reading the paper glanced up mildly, and pushed his chair back a little from the fire. “Them as comes in the way of trade, my angel,” he said as slowly and heavily as though he were spelling the words out of the newspaper in his hand—“’as a right to come where they will, if so be——” “Oh—I dessay,” interrupted Mrs. Siggs, wrathfully. “W’y don’t you ’ave the ’ole Noah’s Ark in to tea, w’ile you’re about it, an’ ’am to cut the bread and butter for ’em.” Inspector Tokely, feeling that he had received as much encouragement as he was likely to get, passed into the room, and sat down. After a few moments, he ventured to suggest a little refreshment for himself and his host—even delicately hinting that Mrs. Siggs might be tempted to partake of a glass at his expense. Mrs. Siggs, relenting a little, passed into the bar to get what was required; and the visitor, feeling the necessity for ingratiating himself as much as possible with them all, turned to the girl. “Your mother, I suppose, Miss?” he asked, edging a little nearer to her. The girl glanced at him for moment—nodded—and looked again at the fire. “And a fine looking mother, too,” went on Tokely, feeling that it was more uphill work than he had anticipated. “You, sir”—he turned to the man with the newspaper—“ought to be proud of such a wife and daughter.” This at a venture, for he knew nothing of the relationship they bore to each other. “W’en I fust drawed near to Betty—t’ other side the earth—there was a matter of nine men—one on ’em nigh on to eighty—a makin’ eyes at ’er, an’ even goin’ so far as to sleep on ’er doorstep. I polished off as many as I could get at, and spoke words of kind advice (as was throwed away on ’im) to the old ’un—an’ drove ’er nigh a ’underd mile to see a parson. An’ she were then as fine a woman—or finer—than any in them parts.” He laid down his newspaper—picked it up again—and finished his remarks. “W’ich so she are now.”