'My 'usband, miss. But--'

'Thank you. Good night, Mrs. Turpin.'

There was quiet for an hour or more. At something after midnight, when Miss
Rodney had just finished writing half a dozen letters, there sounded a
latch-key in the front door, and some one entered. This person, whoever it
was, seemed to stumble about the passage in the dark, and at length banged
against the listener's door. Miss Rodney started up and flung the door
open. By the light of her lamp she saw a moustachioed face, highly flushed,
and grinning.

'Beg pardon,' cried the man, in a voice which harmonised with his look and
bearing. 'Infernally dark here; haven't got a match. You're
Miss--pardon--forgotten the name--new lodger. Oblige me with a light?
Thanks awfully.'

Without a word Miss Rodney took a match-box from her chimney-piece, entered
the passage, entered the second parlour--that occupied by Mr.
Rawcliffe--and lit a candle which stood on the table.

'You'll be so kind,' she said, looking her fellow-lodger in the eyes, 'as
not to set the house on fire.'

'Oh, no fear,' he replied, with a high laugh. 'Quite accustomed. Thanks
awfully, Miss--pardon--forgotten the name.'

But Miss Rodney was back in her sitting-room, and had closed the door.

Her breakfast next morning was served by Mabel Turpin, the elder daughter,