"Did he look disreputable, Sarah?" "Awful, miss," delightedly revelling in her word-painting, "sort of boy the pleece ’ud be after, I should say." "The police!" Nell gave a queer little jump. "Oh, Sarah, isn’t it hot to-day?" "You do look pale, miss; it’s a nasty un’ealthy day, an unlucky day, my mother ’ud say." "Unlucky! Oh, why, Sarah?" "Well, you see, miss, it was on just such a warm, unseasoning (Nell supposed she meant unseasonable) day that father was run over and killed." "Oh, don’t, Sarah!" Nell hurried away into the hall. She stood a moment, hesitating. A latch-key fumbled in the lock of the door. She waited, knowing it was Herr Schmidt. Miss Kezia never fumbled. He came in with his heavy tread. "Ach, Fräulein, it is a bad day, eh?" "Horrible!" she said. He glanced at her and smiled. "Poor Mr. Weather," he said, chuckling. "We are angry when he is colt, we are angry when he is warm." "May I—may I come and talk to you a little, Herr Schmidt?" "Oh, with such bleasure!" he beamed at her over his spectacles. Nell went into his room and stood looking out into the dark street. "I will light the lamp, Fräulein. Zere, now you can see me. Will you blease to sit down?" She sat down. "You—I suppose you know all about business and money, don’t you, Herr Schmidt?" She had seized an ink pot that was on the table, and seemed to be clutching it meaninglessly. He smiled widely. "They call me a goot business head, Fräulein." "Do you have good weather in Germany, Herr Schmidt?" He looked rather bewildered. The other question had seemed the opening of a conversation on business matters. He replied with conscientious length. Nell seemed to be listening absorbedly; she left hold of the ink pot. She was wondering if she had artfully put him sufficiently off the scent. Denis would never forgive her if she were to talk of his lottery to Herr Schmidt. "I suppose," she remarked casually in a pause on his part for breath, "there are lotteries and things like that in Germany as well as here?" Herr Schmidt had not finished about his climate. He blinked his eyes several times, then turned his mind to the new question. He started to give her a good deal of information on the subject. He spoke strongly, because he felt strongly about all forms of gambling. Nell had clutched hold of the ink pot again. "And—and are there gambling places like that in England?" in a pause on his part. "Ach, yes, Fräulein. In the bapers constantly one reads of the bolice appearing at the scene and taking them all to brison." "Oh!" Nell jerked the ink pot suddenly and a few drops spattered her hand. Herr Schmidt produced blotting paper, and wiped the spots off carefully. "Thank you very much." She rose and went to the door. "Good-bye, Herr Schmidt." "Goot-bye. You, berhaps," with a curious, wistful glance over his spectacles that made him look like a great baby, "would not care to eat a biece of cake?"