"All right, Mrs. Sykes. Painful as it may be, I shall do it. Are you
sure it's safe to leave a stranger in the parlour?"

Mrs. Sykes looked worried. "I hope to goodness it's all right, Doctor.
He's been in the parlour half an hour. I don't think he's an agent,
hasn't got a case or a book anywhere. But agents are getting cuter every
day. Naturally I didn't like to go so far as to ask his name. And I'm
not asking it now. Curiosity was never a fault of mine though I do say
it. Still a woman does like to know who's setting in her front parlour."

"And you shall," declared Callandar kindly. "Just hang on a few moments
longer, dear Mrs. Sykes, and your non-existent but very justifiable
curiosity shall be satisfied."

The parlour at Mrs. Sykes opened to the right of the narrow hall. Its
two windows, distinguished by eternally half-drawn blinds of yellow,
looked out upon the veranda, permitting a decorous gloom to envelop the
sacred precincts. Mrs. Sykes was too careful a housekeeper to take risks
with her carpet and too proud of her possessions to care to hide their
glories altogether; hence the blinds were never wholly drawn and never
raised more than half way. In the yellow gloom, one might feast one's
eyes at leisure upon the centre table, draped in red damask, mystic,
wonderful, and on its wealth of mathematically arranged books, the
Bible, the "Indian Mutiny" and "Water Babies" in blue and gold. This
last had been a gift to Ann and was considered by Mrs. Sykes to be the
height of foolishness. Still, a book is a book, especially when bound in
blue and gold.

Upon the gaily papered walls hung a framed silver name-plate and two