rubbishin' newspapers, nor care for the Russings, no how, so git out."

"Don't read the papers?" repeated the man, in a satisfied tone, "ah!
that accounts for it."

Mrs. Hableton stared suspiciously at the intruder. He was a
burly-looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaven, and his sharp,
shrewd-looking grey eyes twinkled like two stars. He was, well-dressed
in a suit of light clothes, and wore a stiffly-starched white
waistcoat, with a massive gold chain stretched across it. Altogether he
gave Mrs. Hableton finally the impression of being a well-to-do
tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted.

"What d'y want?" she asked, abruptly.

"Does Mr. Oliver Whyte live here?" asked the stranger.

"He do, an' he don't," answered Mrs. Hableton, epigrammatically. "I
ain't seen 'im for over a week, so I s'pose 'e's gone on the drink,
like the rest of 'em, but I've put sumthin' in the paper as 'ill pull
him up pretty sharp, and let 'im know I ain't a carpet to be trod on,
an' if you're a friend of 'im, you can tell 'im from me 'e's a brute,
an' it's no more but what I expected of 'im, 'e bein' a male."

The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs. Hableton,
having stopped for want of breath, he interposed, quietly--

"Can I speak to you for a few moments?"

"An' who's a-stoppin' of you?" said Mrs. Hableton, defiantly. "Go on