everything."

She heard Harry Hagberd say, "Hallo, dad," then a clanging clatter. The
window rumbled down, and he stood before her again.

"It's just like old times. Nearly walloped the life out of me to stop me
going away, and now I come back he throws a confounded shovel at my head
to keep me out. It grazed my shoulder."

She shuddered.

"I wouldn't care," he began, "only I spent my last shillings on the
railway fare and my last twopence on a shave--out of respect for the old
man."

"Are you really Harry Hagberd?" she asked. "Can you prove it?"

"Can I prove it? Can any one else prove it?" he said jovially. "Prove
with what? What do I want to prove? There isn't a single corner in the
world, barring England, perhaps, where you could not find some man, or
more likely woman, that would remember me for Harry Hagberd. I am more
like Harry Hagberd than any man alive; and I can prove it to you in a
minute, if you will let me step inside your gate."

"Come in," she said.

He entered then the front garden of the Carvils. His tall shadow strode
with a swagger; she turned her back on the window and waited, watching
the shape, of which the footfalls seemed the most material part. The
light fell on a tilted hat; a powerful shoulder, that seemed to cleave