"Now tell me your message."

"It's about a--a boy, sir," stammered Tilda, and felt a horrible fear
creeping over her now that she approached the crisis. "That is, if
you're the Reverend Doctor Glasson."

"I am Doctor Glasson. Well?"

"It's about a boy," harked back poor Tilda. "He's called Arthur Miles
Surname Chandon--an' he was born at a place called Kingsand, if that's
any 'elp--an' there's somebody wants to see 'im most particular."

"Come indoors."

Doctor Glasson said it sharply, at the same time turning right about and
leading the way towards the house. Tilda followed, while behind her the
excluded 'Dolph yapped and flung himself against the gate. But the gate
was lined on the inside with wire-netting, and the garden wall was
neither to be leapt nor scaled.

In the porch Dr. Glasson stood aside to let the servant precede them
into the house, looked after her until she vanished down the length of a
dark passage that smelt potently of soapsuds and cabbage-water, and
motioned the child to step within. She obeyed, while her terror and the
odours of the house together caught her by the throat. But worse was
her dismay when, having closed the front door, the Doctor bolted it and
slipped a chain on the bolt.

"The first door to the left, if you please." He stepped past her and
pushed it open, and she entered, albeit with quaking knees. The room--a