ost mysterious all at once.

"Where do you suppose I live?" he asked Ridgwell; "I do not think you
will ever guess."

"Whitechapel?" hazarded Ridgwell.

The Writer pretended to look almost hurt.

"Peckham?" suggested Christine.

"Very bad guesses," laughed the Writer. "You are both wrong. I have a
set of chambers facing Trafalgar Square, where every morning of my life
I can look out of the front windows and see my dear old friend Lal."

Both the children gave a shout at this astounding piece of information.

"And we shall see the Lord Mayor go past in state from the windows?"

"Yes," said the Writer; "but if what I believe is coming to pass,
provided that the right time has come, and I think myself it has, we
shall all see the sign that Lal promised us he would give, so long ago."

"The sign," echoed Ridgwell breathlessly; "I say, that's something
like!"

"We shall see what we shall see, and as that is Chapter One of my story
I am going to take my departure."

After the Writer had left, Ridgwell turned to Christine.

"It's the jolliest afternoon we've had since Father and Mother left,
isn't it, Chris?"

Christine nodded; she was considering many things.

CHAPTER VI

TWO DICK WHITTINGTONS

The streets of London were alive with an unwonted gaiety, and crowds of
people waited patiently, and with an air of expectancy, to see the Lord
Mayor of London pass in state on his way from the Mansion House to the
Home for Children which he had built--about to be opened that day by
his Majesty the King.

Ridgwell and Christine sat in the broad, chintz-covered window-seat of
the Writer's chambers overlooking Trafalgar Square, and viewed the
great crowds of people beneath them with astonishment and interest.

"When the Lord Mayor passes my window," said the Writer, "he has
promised to look out as far as his dignity will permit and nod to me.
That he also intends to nod to our old friend Lal is a foregone
conclusion, for without that recognition upon his part I am sure the
day's ceremony would be incomplete."

"Will it be like a circus?" inquired Ridgwell.

"Yes, rather like a circus," admitted the Writer. "That is to say, a
very great deal of gilt and highly coloured horses, soldiers, and
inevitably one brass band playing, probably more than one."

"We can see Lal perfectly from here," said Christine.

"What is that large wreath for, placed between Lal's paws?" asked
Ridgwell.

"That," declared the