"Don't foreigners wear hats?" inquired Mrs. Fladgate, innocently.

"Not the respectable English sort, I'll bet bound," replied Mrs.
Quelch; "some outlandish rubbish, I dare say. But I thought Mr.
Fladgate on his Scotch journey." (Mr. Fladgate, it should be stated,
was a traveller in the oil and colour line.)

"So he is. I mean, so he ought to be. In fact I expected him home
to-day. But now he's in p-p-prison, and I may never see him any
m-mo-more." And Mrs. Fladgate wept afresh.

"Stuff and nonsense!" retorted Mrs. Quelch.

"You've only to send the money they ask for, and they'll be glad
enough to get rid of him. But I wouldn't hurry; I'd let him wait
a bit--you'll see him soon enough, never fear."

The prophecy was fulfilled sooner than the prophet expected. Scarcely
were the words out of her mouth when a cab was heard to draw up at
the door, and a moment later Fladgate himself, a big, jovial man,
wearing a white hat very much on one side, entered the room and
threw a bundle of rugs on the sofa.

"Home again, old girl, and glad of it! Mornin', Mrs. Quelch," said
the new-comer.

Mrs. Fladgate gazed at him doubtfully for a mooment, and then flung
her arms round his neck, ejaculating, "Saved, saved!"