variety of it without a moment's hesitation.

"We might be living in the Arabian Nights," said Miss Fritten, excitedly.

"Hush! Listen," beseeched Mrs. Greyes.

"Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here to-day?"
asked the stranger.

"We've had rather more people than usual in the shop to-day," said Mr.
Scarrick, "but I can't recall a boy such as you describe."

Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends.
It was, of course, deplorable that any one should treat the truth as an
article temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratified
that the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick's traffic in
falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.

"I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the
absence of colouring matter in the jam," whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes
tragically.

The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw
a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and
upturned astrachan collar. After a cautious interval the seeker after
oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to
find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements. He, too,
took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and
gossip laden customers. It was Emily Yorling's "day", and most of the
shoppers made their way to her drawing-room. To go direct from a