"Thought he was a young man," murmured the constable, the stranger
having passed him. "He had a young face right enough."

The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read
the name of the street upon the corner house, turned back.

"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy."

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me
my way to Bloomsbury Square."

"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round
the corner is. What number might you be wanting?"

The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned
overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs.
Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight."

"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house.
Been recommended there?"

"By--by a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much."

"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling
him that by the end of the week, young--"

"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of
the stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind
and old in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind.
Guess he'll look old all round if he stops long at mother