reached down to his heels. His wig was frowsy, his three-cornered hat
was out of shape and he held a big stick with which he every now and
then thumped the floor to emphasise his words.

Beyond this unpleasant figure she could see a small untidy room with a
sloping roof. The floor, the chairs--not common ones but of the early
Queen Anne fashion with leathern seats--an old escritoire, were strewn
with papers. The occupant and owner was invisible. But she could hear
his voice. He was remonstrating with the little man in the doorway.

Lavinia touched the man on the shoulder. He turned, stared and seeing
only a pretty girl favoured her with a leer.

"How much does Mr. Vane owe you?" said Lavinia, chinking the coins.

"Eh, my dear? Are you going to pay his debt? Lucky young man. Nine weeks
at three shillings a week comes to twenty-seven shillings. There ought
to be a bit for the lawyer who wrote the notice to quit. But I'll let
you off that because of your pretty face."

Lavinia counted the money into the grimy outstretched paw. Moggs' face
wrinkled into a smirk.

"Much obleeged, my young madam. I'll wager as the spark you've saved
from being turned into the street'll thank you more to your liking than
an old fellow like me could."

Solomon Moggs made a low bow and was turning away when Lancelot Vane
suddenly appeared. His face was very pallid and he clutched the door to
steady himself. What with his evident weakness and his bandaged head he