"Oh, I'll tell Mrs. Purcell, if you like," said he affably. "I don't think it's the box she wants to see so much as the man. Why not call on her before you leave?" "What's the use? She would not believe me. I'll bring back Carson, I tell you, and he can shut her up himself. I ain't going to argue with Mrs. Purcell." "Well, perhaps she is rather a difficult subject, Major. When do you go?" "To-morrow, night train." "Ah, well, pleasant journey. By the way, who was that fair chap you were talking to yesterday--the man I saw you with in Poplar Street? Excuse my asking, but I can't help thinking I know him." The Major started, and looked searchingly at Mallow, who remained unmoved. "Oh, a friend of mine; I.C.S. man," he answered carelessly. "Why?" "Oh, nothing. I fancied he was a doctor I had met somewhere." "Doctor!" repeated Semberry, nervously; "no, he's not a doctor. Civil engineer. He builds bridges of sorts. You don't know him. He's been India way these last twenty years." "Ah, strange, too--I am convinced I know him," said Mallow, rising. "Just shows how apt one is to confuse faces. I could have sworn he was a doctor. Well, I must be off. Shall I take any message from you to Mrs. Purcell?" "No. You can tell her, if you like, that I'm going to bring back Carson," said the Major, grimly. "And if I don't prove he's the man he says he is, she can write to the War Office and say I'm a swindler. Have a peg before you go." "No, thanks; too early for strong waters. Good-day." "Day," replied Semberry, curtly, accompanying Mallow to the door. When his visitor was fairly off the premises, the Major drew a long breath and returned to his breakfast. "Time I got off," he muttered. "Wonder what the chap's driving at. I was a fool to leave those tickets about; but who'd ha' thought he'd have spotted them; who'd ha' thought o' seeing him now, for the matter o' that." In the street Mallow was looking for Vraik. He knew he was somewhere not far off: Shortly he espied a ragged pavement artist at work on a series of glaring presentments in coloured chalk within sight of the Major's door. Mallow strolled across the road to drop a copper into the man's hat. As he did so he spoke hurriedly. "The Major's leaving town to-night or to-morrow. Watch him Charing Cross or Victoria, and wire to my rooms at once when he goes." "I'm fly," said the pavement artist, with a grin; and Mallow, satisfied that Semberry was under proper surveillance, went his way easy in his mind. Round the corner, as fate would have it, he ran almost into the arms of a stout elderly gentleman in black. "Oh, my dear sir, my dear sir!" protested the stranger, puffing, "you knocked the wind out of me. Why, it's Mr. Mallow!" "Mr. Brock?" said Mallow, recognizing the vicar. "Who would have thought of meeting you here." "Surprising, indeed," said Brock, shaking hands. "But I'm on my way to see Major Semberry. Perhaps you can tell me where is Marquis Street, Mr. Mallow?"