f her husband's pinned on a
skimpy bun at the back of her head, she was horrible after Mrs.
Gainsborough in the black and green gingham. Michael looked down at her
over the railings; and she, recognizing him at last, pounced back to
come up and open the door.

"I couldn't think who it was. We had a man round selling pots of musk
this morning, and I didn't want to come trapesing upstairs for nothing."

Mrs. Cleghorne was receiving him so pleasantly that Michael scarcely
knew what to say. No doubt his regular payment of rent had a good deal
to do with it.

"Is Mr. Barnes up?" he asked.

"I don't know, I'm sure. I never go inside his door now. No."

"Oh, really? Why not?"

"I'm the last person to make mischief, Mr. Fane, but I don't consider he
has treated us fair."

"Oh, really?"

"He's got a woman here living with him. Now of course that's a thing I
should never allow, but seeing as you weren't here and was paying the
rent regular I thought to myself that I'll just shut my eyes until you
came back. It's really disgusting, and we has to be so particular with
the other lodgers. It's quite upset me, it has; and _Mis_-ter Cleghorne
has been intending to speak to him about it. Only his asthma's been so
bad lately--it really seems to have knocked all the heart out of him."

This pity for her husband was very ominous, Michael thought. Evidently
the landlady was defending herself against an abrupt forfeiture of rent
for the ground floor. Michael tapped at the door of his old room: it was
locked.

"I'll get on down again to my oven," said Mrs. Cleghorne with a ratlike
glance at the closed door. "I'm just cooking a bit of fish for my old
man's dinner."

She fixed him with her eyes that were beady like the head of the hatpin
in her cap, and sweeping her hand upward over her nose, she vanished.

Michael rapped again and, as there was no answer, he went along the
passage and tried the bedroom door. Barnes' voice called out to know who
was there. Michael shouted his name, and heard Barnes whispering to
somebody inside. Presently he opened the sitting-room door and invited
Michael to come in.

It was extraordinary to see how with a few additions the character of
the room had changed since Michael left it. The furniture was still
there; but what had seemed ascetic was now mean. Spangled
picture-postcards were standing along the mantelpiece. The autotypes of
St. George and the Knight in Armor were both askew: the shelves