to me as if I'd got to live and die with 'im."

"Give him rope, and possibly he'll have a week at being a howling
hyaena, or a laughing jackass, or something of that sort that will
lead to a disturbance," thought Mr. Clodd, "in which case, of
course, you would have your remedy."

"Yes," thought Mrs. Postwhistle, "and possibly also 'e may take it
into what 'e calls is 'ead to be a tiger or a bull, and then
perhaps before 'e's through with it I'll be beyond the reach of
remedies."

"Leave it to me," said Mr. Clodd, rising and searching for his hat.
"I know old Gladman; I'll have a talk with him."

"You might get a look at that letter if you can," suggested Mrs.
Postwhistle, "and tell me what you think about it. I don't want to
spend the rest of my days in a lunatic asylum of my own if I can
'elp it."

"You leave it to me," was Mr. Clodd's parting assurance.

The July moon had thrown a silver veil over the grimness of Rolls
Court when, five hours later, Mr. Clodd's nailed boots echoed again
upon its uneven pavement; but Mr. Clodd had no eye for moon or
stars or such-like; always he had things more important to think
of.

"Seen the old 'umbug?" asked Mrs. Postwhistle, who was partial to
the air, leading the way into the parlour.