A third knock, or, rather, a perfect battery of knocks, proved that Job was at home. From within came the growl of a waking beast--a beast angry at being disturbed; and shortly afterwards the door was wrenched open by no very gentle hand. The gypsy, with his red-rimmed eyes blinking from under a thatch of disordered hair, stood on the threshold. Mr. Cass took in his condition at a glance. "Are you not ashamed to be drunk at this time of day?" he asked. "What do you mean by it?" "It is none of your business," growled Job, who had slept off the worst effects of his debauch. "It is my business. I am Mr. Cass." "I know you are," retorted the man, still blocking the doorway. "But that doesn't give you the right to come knocking at my door. 'Tisn't your house." "It is Mr. Heron's house." Mr. Cass said, sharply; "and I have sufficient influence with Mr. Heron to have you kicked out into the cold if you do not behave yourself." "I shouldn't do that if I were you," said the ruffian, with a sinister smile. "Others may find themselves out in the cold too. Aye, my gorgeous Gentile--bigger folk nor the poor Romany." This was plainly a threat levelled at Mrs. Marshall, as her brother clearly saw. However, it was not his intention to quarrel with the man until he had got the truth out of him. "You speak in riddles," he said, "but perhaps you will stand aside and let me enter." "What for?" asked Job, suspiciously. "You shall hear my business when I am within." The gypsy began to cough, and the paroxysm was so violent that he had to hold on to the door-post. "Well, sir," said Job, at length, somewhat sobered by a fit of coughing; "come in. I ain't the one to keep a Romany Rye out of my tent." Mr. Cass entered, and followed the man into the sitting-room in which Jenner had been murdered by--so far as Mr. Cass knew--its present occupant. As he entered he became conscious of a strong smell of petroleum, and, making a sudden pause, "Have you upset your lamp?" he asked. "No, I ain't upset anything," said Job, sulkily. "The smell, is it? Oh, that's my business. I've got an idea that ain't nothing to do with you. Sit down and tell me what's the row. I know, though. It's your young lady. Well, I haven't done her no harm; she's a sister to me, because she patters the black lingo. Has she been setting your back up, Rye?" "My visit has nothing to do with Miss Cass," said her father, sharply. "Leave her name out of the question. I know all about her visit to you and how you behaved. I am not blaming you. But my business here has to do with a very serious matter. Perhaps you can guess my errand when I tell you that I come from Mrs. Marshall."