The woman, who seemed a respectable person, told us that she had been a parlour-maid in the employ of a lady at Kensington, and her husband was foreman in a mineral-water factory in the neighbourhood. Tibbie was struck with the woman's homely manner. She was from Devonshire, and the way she spoke of her own village showed her to be a true lover of the country. "My husband, Mr Morton, is a compositor on a newspaper in Fleet Street and is always away at nights," Tibbie explained. "We've been married nearly a year. I, too, was in service--a lady's-maid." "Ah! I thought you 'ad been," replied the landlady, whose name was Williams. "You speak so refined." So after re-examining the rooms Tibbie seated herself in the wicker armchair of the little parlour, and leaning back suggested that we should engage the apartments. To this I, of course, agreed, and having given Mrs Williams half a sovereign as deposit, we left promising to take possession with our personal belongings--that same evening. Outside, Tibbie expressed herself well pleased. "I rather like that woman. She's honest and genuine, I'm sure," she declared. "Now I must buy a second-hand trunk and some clothes suited to my station as your humble and obedient wife," she laughed. So we went through into the Old Kent Road, and there purchased two big old travelling trunks, into which we afterwards placed the parcels which she had purchased at a cheap draper's. Then, just before dusk, we returned to our new abode and entered into possession. We had tea together, prepared for us by Mrs Williams. "You really make a model husband, Wilfrid," she laughed when we were alone, holding her cup in her hand. "I suppose you'll have to go to work very soon. I wonder what time compositors go to work at night?" "I haven't the ghost of an idea," I declared. "I must find out. I suppose about seven or eight. But," I added, "I hope you will be comfortable, and that you won't be too dull." "I shall work," she said. "I'll keep the rooms clean and dusted, and when I've got nothing to do there's always needlework." "We must pretend to be very frugal, you know," I urged. "A compositor's wages are not high." "Of course. Leave that to me. You'll have to buy some more clothes. A Sunday suit, for instance, and a pair of squeaky boots." She had made no mention of the affair in Charlton Wood, but on the excuse that she might be lonely when I had left her, she had bought both the morning and evening papers, although as yet she had not glanced at them. Besides posing as William Morton I had much else to do, and many inquiries to make. I intended to lose no time in ascertaining who was the man living on Sydenham Hill, and whether he had any acquaintance with the dead unknown.