"Mrs. Driver," I said sternly, "you said he'd gone out for a stroll. I
refuse to believe that any man would stroll for three weeks."

"So I did say it," was the defiant reply. "I said it so as you
shouldn't be put off coming. You looked a steady young feller, and I
wanted a let. Wish I'd told you the truth, if it 'ad a-stopped you."

"What is the truth?"

"'E was a wrong 'un, 'e wos. Writing begging letters to parties as was
a bit soft, that wos '_is_ little gime. But 'e wos a bit too
clever one day, and the coppers got 'im. Now you know!"

Mrs. Driver paused after this outburst, and allowed her eye to wander
slowly and ominously round my walls.

I was deeply moved. My one link with Bohemia had turned out a fraud.

Mrs. Driver's voice roused me from my meditations.

"I must arst you to be good enough, if _you_ please, kindly to
remove those there bits of paper."

She pointed to the rejection forms.

I hesitated. I felt that it was a thing that ought to be broken gently.

"The fact is, Mrs. Driver," I said, "and no one can regret it more
deeply than I do--the fact is, they're stuck on with glue."