"It does you credit," said Mr. Pett. "Well, ta-ta; I must be off."

"And I expect she'd be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,"
said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other's sleeve.

Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.

"It wants to be done cleverly, though," said Mr. Hatchard, "else she
might get the idea that I wanted to go back."

"I s'pose you know she's moved?" said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man
anxious to change the conversation.

"Eh?" said the other.

"Number thirty-seven, John Street," said Mr. Pett. "Told my wife she's
going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden
name."

He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once
verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits
of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down, and a
bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such
determination, he walked back to his lodgings in gloomy thought.

On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the corner
of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37. He recognized the
curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the room, leaned
over the palings and peered at a card that stood on the window-sash: