Of course, in spite of the fast air which certainly pervaded the house, all things were very proper. Miss Bull was a lady and saw that things were kept decent. The boarders feared her bright black eyes and her sharp tongue, and were always glad when she retired to her sitting-room. When they waxed too noisy, the little old maid would appear like an unquiet ghost, and the clamor would die away. But Miss Bull was also liked, as she was a very affable hostess. She was thoroughly happy now, as she had what she most desired--power; and thought, like Satan, that it was better to rule in a certain place than to serve in the higher spheres. Margery was now, as ever, her docile slave, and Miss Bull governed with a rod of iron. She dismissed some of the servants, among them Jarvey, who had bettered himself by becoming a page-boy in a West-End mansion. Among the new boarders Miss Bull took most notice of Bawdsey, who occupied the rooms formerly inhabited by Train. On his arrival he had asked particularly for these rooms, saying that he had once lived in them when he stopped with Mrs. Jersey many years before. After some thought Miss Bull remembered the man. He had boarded in the house, and had been a great favorite with Madame, but had later gone to America, and for some time had remained away. He expressed the greatest sorrow for the death of the old lady, but declared that he was very pleased with the house as managed by Miss Bull. The little woman liked him, as his conversation was amusing and he was most polite. But had she known that he was a private inquiry agent she might not have approved of him so much. Miss Bull was a lady and drew the line at spies. What Bawdsey was she never inquired, as she was the least curious of women. His habits were certainly eccentric, for sometimes he would remain away for a week, and at other times would stop constantly in the house. He often remained in bed for the day and had his meals brought to him. This he called his bed-cure, and stated that he suffered from nerves. He told Miss Bull quite gratuitously that he had a small income and supplemented it by taking photographs of scenery and selling them to London firms. But he declared that he was not a professional photographer. He simply traveled here and there, and photographed any scenery which struck him as pretty. The London photographers gave him good prices for these, but he stated that he merely did such artistic work for the sake of an occupation. "I am simple in my tastes," said Mr. Bawdsey, "and what I have keeps me in luxury. But a man, even of my age, must be up and doing. Better to wear out than rust out."