"I don't know. Perhaps it was Wiggleswick himself. He came up to me one day as I was sitting in Kensington Gardens, and somehow followed me home." "But, good gracious," cried Zora--forgetful for the moment of stars and sea--"aren't you afraid that he will rob you?" "No. I asked him, and he explained. You see, it would be out of his line. A forger only forges, a pickpocket only snatches chains and purses, and a burglar only burgles. Now, he couldn't burgle the place in which he was living himself, so I am safe." Zora gave him sage counsel. "I'd get rid of him if I were you." "If I were you, I would--but I can't," he replied. "If I told him to go he wouldn't. I go instead sometimes. That's why I'm here." "If you go on talking like that, you'll make my brain reel," said Zora laughing. "Do tell me something about yourself. What is your name?" "Septimus Dix. I've got another name--Ajax--Septimus Ajax Dix--but I never use it." "That's a pity," said Zora. "Ajax is a lovely name." He dissented in his vague fashion. "Ajax suggests somebody who defies lightning and fools about with a spear. It's a silly name. A maiden aunt persuaded my mother to give it to me. I think she mixed it up with Achilles. She admired the statue in Hyde Park. She got run over by a milkcart." "When was that?" she inquired, more out of politeness than interest in the career of Mr. Dix's maiden aunt. "A minute before she died." "Oh," said Zora, taken aback by the emotionless manner in which he mentioned the tragedy. Then, by way of continuing the conversation:-- "Why are you called Septimus?" "I'm the seventh son. All the others died young. I never could make out why I didn't." "Perhaps," said Zora with a laugh, "you were thinking of something else at the time and lost the opportunity." "It must have been that," said he. "I lose opportunities just as I always lose trains." "How do you manage to get anywhere?" "I wait for the next train. That's easy. But there's never another opportunity." He drew a cigarette from his case, put it in his mouth, and fumbled in his pockets for matches. Finding none, he threw the cigarette into the road. "That's just like you," cried Zora. "Why didn't you ask the cabman for a light?" She laughed at him with an odd sense of intimacy, though she had known him for scarcely an hour. He seemed rather a stray child than a man. She longed to befriend him--to do something for him, motherwise--she knew not what. Her adventure by now had failed to be adventurous. The spice of danger had vanished. She knew she could sit beside this helpless being till the day of doom without fear of molestation by word or act.