in a few minutes.

'I've taken tickets for Toole's Theatre on Monday night. You must
both come. You can, can't you?'

Mumford and his wife glanced at each other. Yes, they could go; it
was very kind of Miss Derrick; but--

'That's all right, it'll be jolly. The idea struck me in the train,
as I was going up; so I took a cab from Victoria and booked the
places first thing. Third row from the front, dress circle; the best
I could do. Please let me have my dinner alone. Mrs. Mumford, I want
to tell you something afterwards.'

Clarence went round to see his friend Fentiman, with whom he usually
had a chat on Saturday evening. Emmeline was soon joined by the
guest in the drawing-room.

'There, you may read that,' said Louise, holding out a letter. 'It's
from Mr. Cobb; came yesterday, but I didn't care to talk about it
then. Yes, please read it; I want you to.'

Reluctantly, but with curiosity, Emmeline glanced over the sheet.
Mr. Cobb wrote in ignorance of Miss Derrick's having left home. It
was a plain, formal letter, giving a brief account of his doings in
Ireland, and making a request that Louise would meet him, if
possible, on Streatham Common, at three o'clock on Saturday
afternoon. And he signed himself--'Very sincerely yours.'

'I made up my mind at once,' said the girl, 'that I wouldn't meet