you from Adam. I've never seen you before, and I don't want to see you
again. You go away."

"I'm your husband, and my place is at home," replied Mr. Simpson. "A
man can have a shave if he likes, can't he? Where's my supper?"

"Go on," said his wife. "Keep it up. But be careful my husband don't
come in and catch you, that's all."

Mr. Simpson gazed at her fixedly, and then, with an impatient
exclamation, walked into the small kitchen and began to set the supper.
A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, butter, and cheese made
an appetizing display. Then he took a jug from the dresser and
descended to the cellar.

A musical trickling fell on the ear of Mrs. Simpson as she stood at the
parlour door, and drew her stealthily to the cellar. The key was in the
lock, and, with a sudden movement, she closed the door and locked it. A
sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his discomfiture.

"Now I'm off for the police," cried his wife.

"Don't be a fool," shouted Mr. Simpson, tugging wildly at the door-
handle. "Open the door."

Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her husband resumed his efforts until
the door-knob, unused to such treatment, came off in his hand. A sudden
scrambling noise on the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he had
not pulled it off intentionally.