nt on Mr. Murdoch's
loss of independence; so he said, "Of course not," nodding wisely.

"There was a bit of trouble through his being too kind-hearted to a
servant-girl," said Mrs. Murdoch, looking quickly at the door and
shaking her curl-papers. "Yes. Though I don't know why I'm telling you
straight off as you might say. But there, I'm funny sometimes. If I take
to anybody, there's nothing I won't do for them. Alf--that _is_ my old
man--he gets quite aggravated with me over it. So if you happen to get
into conversation with him, you'd better not let on you know he used to
have a shop of his own."

Michael, wondering how far off were these foreshadowed intimacies with
his landlord, promised he would be very discreet, and asked where Mr.
Murdoch was working now.

"In a chemist's shop. Just off of the Euston Road. You know," she said,
beaming archly. "It's what you might call rather a funny place. Only he
gets good money, because the boss knows he can trust him."

Michael nodded his head in solemn comprehension of Mr. Murdoch's
reputation, and asked his landlady if she had such a thing as a
postcard.

"Well, there. I wonder if I have. If I have, it's in the kitchen
dresser, that's a sure thing. Perhaps you'd like to come down and see
the kitchen?"

Michael followed her downstairs. There were no basements in Neptune
Crescent, and he was glad to think his bedroom was above his
sitting-room and on the top floor. It would have been hot just above the
kitchen.

"Miss Carlyle has her room here," said Mrs. Murdoch, pointing next door
to the kitchen. "Nice and handy for her as she's rather late sometimes.
I hate to hear anybody go creaking upstairs, I do. It makes me nervous."

The kitchen was pleasant enough and looked out upon a narrow strip of
garden full of coarse plants.

"They'll be very merry and bright, won't they?" said Mrs. Murdoch,
smiling encouragement at the greenery. "It's wonderful what you can do
nowadays for threepence."

Michael asked what they were.

"Why, sunflowers, of course, only they want another month yet. I have
them every year--yes. They're less trouble than rabbits or chickens. Now
where did I see that postcard?"

She searched the various utensils, and at last discovered the postcard
stuck behind a mutilated clock.

"What _will_ they bring out next?" demanded Mrs. Murdoch, surveying it
with affectionate approbation. "Pretty, I call it."

A pair of lovers in black plush were sitting e