he
was by name, for Pendyces never asked their way to anything, or believed
what they were told, but found out for themselves with much unnecessary
trouble, of which they afterwards complained.

A policeman first, and then a young man with a beard, resembling an
artist, guided her footsteps. The latter, who was leaning by a gate,
opened it.

"In here," he said; "the door in the corner on the right."

Mrs. Pendyce walked down the little path, past the ruined fountain with
its three stone frogs, and stood by the first green door and waited. And
while she waited she struggled between fear and joy; for now that she was
away from Mrs. Bellew she no longer felt a sense of insult. It was the
actual sight of her that had aroused it, so personal is even the most
gentle heart.

She found the rusty handle of a bell amongst the creeper-leaves, and
pulled it. A cracked metallic tinkle answered her, but no one came; only
a faint sound as of someone pacing to and fro. Then in the street beyond
the outer gate a coster began calling to the sky, and in the music of his
prayers the sound was lost. The young man with a beard, resembling an
artist, came down the path.

"Perhaps you could tell me, sir, if my son is out?"

"I've not seen him go out; and I've been painting here all the morning."

Mrs. Pendyce looked with wonder at an easel which stood outside another
door a little further on. It seemed to her strange that her son should
live in such a place.

"Shall I knock for you?" said the artist. "All these knockers are
stiff."

"If you would be so kind!"

The artist knocked.

"He must be in," he said. "I haven't taken my eyes off his door, because
I've been painting it."

Mrs. Pendyce gazed at the door.

"I can't get it," said the artist. "It's worrying me to death."

Mrs. Pendyce looked at him doubtfully.

"Has he no servant?" she said.

"Oh no," said the artist; "it's a studio. The light's all wrong. I
wonder if you would mind standing just as you are for one second; it
would help me a lot!"

He moved back and curved his hand over his eyes, and through Mrs. Pendyce
there passed a shiver.

'Why doesn't George open the door?' she thought. 'What--what is this man
doing?'

The artist dropped his hand.

"Thanks so much!" he said. "I'll knock again. There! that would raise
the dead!"

And he laughed.

An unreasoning terror seized on Mrs. Pendyce.

"Oh," she stammered, "I must get in--I must get