arm-in-arm, bustling about the streets and courts that were the
scene of Clodd's rent-collecting labours. Their evident attachment
to one another was curiously displayed; Clodd, the young and red-
haired, treating his white-haired, withered companion with fatherly
indulgence; the other glancing up from time to time into Clodd's
face with a winning expression of infantile affection.

"We are getting much better," explained Clodd, the pair meeting
Peter Hope one day at the corner of Newcastle Street. "The more we
are out in the open air, and the more we have to do and think
about, the better for us--eh?"

The mild-looking little old gentleman hanging on Clodd's arm smiled
and nodded.

"Between ourselves," added Mr. Clodd, sinking his voice, "we are
not half as foolish as folks think we are."

Peter Hope went his way down the Strand.

"Clodd's a good sort--a good sort," said Peter Hope, who, having in
his time lived much alone, had fallen into the habit of speaking
his thoughts aloud; "but he's not the man to waste his time. I
wonder."

With the winter Clodd's Lunatic fell ill.

Clodd bustled round to Chancery Lane.

"To tell you the truth," confessed Mr. Gladman, "we never thought