"And should, according to your own view, have a wife, three children,
and a vegetable garden in a suburb," said Appleplex.

"Such is precisely the case," returned Eeldrop, "but I had not thought
it necessary to mention this biographical detail. As it is Saturday
night, I shall return to my suburb. Tomorrow will be spent in that
garden. . . ."

"I shall pay my call on Mrs. Howexden," murmured Appleplex.




II




The suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the gardens of the
small houses to left and right were rank with ivy and tall grass and
lilac bushes; the tropical South London verdure was dusty above and
mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed with flies. Eeldrop, at the
window, welcomed the smoky smell of lilac, the gramaphones, the choir
of the Baptist chapel, and the sight of three small girls playing cards
on the steps of the police station.

"On such a night as this," said Eeldrop, "I often think of
Scheherazade, and wonder what has become of her."

Appleplex rose without speaking and turned to the files which contained