"For once you are at fault," I said triumphantly; "the hair is my
own, as you will perceive; I have just had it cut at the
hairdresser's, and no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron."

He frowned slightly, yet, nevertheless, on my turning to go he
embraced me warmly--a rare exhibition in that man of ice. He even
helped me on with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the
flaps of my pockets. He was particular, too, in fitting my arm in
my overcoat sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the
cuff with his deft fingers. "Come again soon!" he said, clapping
me on the back.

"At any and all times," I said enthusiastically; "I only ask ten
minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office, and four hours'
sleep at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always,
as you know."

"It is indeed," he said, with his impenetrable smile.

Nevertheless, I did not find him at home when I next called. One
afternoon, when nearing my own home, I met him in one of his
favorite disguises,--a long blue swallow-tailed coat, striped
cotton trousers, large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white
hat, carrying a tambourine. Of course to others the disguise was
perfect, although it was known to myself, and I passed him--
according to an old understanding between us--without the slightest
recognition, trusting to a later explanation. At another time, as
I was making a professional visit to the wife of a publican at the
East End, I saw him, in the disguise of a broken-down artisan,