Young Mrs. Caspar, one of those women who is always on her guard, guessed her visitor by that peremptory knock. She dried her hands, shut the kitchen-door on the children--there were two now; peeped into the study, saw that Edward was out, and faced the stranger. Old Mr. Caspar was not really old: a dark, powerful man, almost magnificent, in the familiar coat with the astrakhan collar of the picture papers, and a black-and-silvered beard. A close observer would have detected a Semitic strain in him and more than a strain of the South. In fact, Hans Caspar's father came from Frankfurt and his mother from Trieste, though he had lived in England from his earliest years and spoke without a trace of accent. Now his dark eyes met the woman's blue ones, and seemed to approve of what they saw. "Mr. Edward Caspar in?" he asked. "He will be in a moment.--Mr. Hans Caspar, isn't it?" She showed him into the little back sitting-room. Then the task before her was to warn her husband before he came blundering in and began to coo and call to her and the children from the passage. Anne Caspar was always at her best in a crisis. Her baby was asleep; and Ernie was happy bestriding a new hobby-horse and chanting to himself. She took off her apron, put on her hat, and paused a moment on the door-step, looking up and down the road. Which way had her husband gone? Once a week or so he went down town to consult the Public Library. For the rest he always went towards the Downs to lose himself amid the hollows of the hills. She made for the huge green wall that blocked the end of the road, shimmering and mysterious in the April sunshine. Her choice proved right. She saw him coming off the hill above Beech-hangar, and went to meet him. He would have blundered past her, oblivious of her presence but that she stopped him. Briefly she told him the news and gave him his instructions. They must not be seen entering the house together. She would return directly to the house: he must go along the new Road, down Church Street at the back, and approach by way of Billing's Corner. Obedient as a child, he lumbered off at that curious bear-like trot of his, his sandals tapping the pavement. Ten minutes later, when he entered the back sitting-room, he was perspiring but as prepared as such a flabby soul could ever be. He had always been in terror of his father; and Hans Caspar saw nothing strange in his son's greeting. "Hullo, Edward," he said in his deep voice. "Just run down to see you." "Hullo, father," replied the son with the forced cheeriness he always adopted when addressing his sire. "You'll stop for luncheon?" "Thank-you. If you can give me a bite." The young man rang. His wife came to the door. "Mr. Caspar'll stay for luncheon," said Edward, lowering his voice appropriately. "Can you let us have something?" "Very good," replied his wife surlily. The father looked after her, grimly amused. "Don't seem very obliging," he remarked.