lave no more. You won't
run away from me this time. Leave me for a single night, and I go to the
nearest police-station and tell all I know about you. If I wasn't a fool
I'd do it now. But I've hungered and worked for seven years, and now
it's time _my husband_ did something for me.'

'You always had a head for argument, Clara,' he replied coolly. 'But
I can't get over that dream of mine. Really a queer thing, wasn't it?
Who'd have thought of you turning barmaid? With your education, I should
have thought you could have done something in the teaching line. Never
mind. The queerest thing of all is that I'm really half glad to see you.
How's Jack?'

The extraordinary conversation went on as they walked towards the street
where Clara lived. It was in a poor part of Westminster. Reaching the
house, Clara opened the door with a latchkey.

Two women were standing in the passage.

'This is my husband, Mrs. Rook,' Clara said to one of them. 'He's just
got back from abroad.'

'Glad to see you, Mr. Williamson,' said the landlady, scrutinising him
with unmistakable suspicion.

The pair ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Williamson--she had always used
the name she received in marriage--opened a door which disclosed a dark
bedroom. A voice came from within--the voice of a little lad of eight
years old.

'That you, mother? Why, I've only just put myself to bed. What time is
it?'

'Then you ought to have gone to bed long ago,' replied his mother whilst
she was striking a light.

It was a very small room, but decent. The boy was discovered sitting up
in bed--a bright-faced little fellow with black hair. Clara closed the
door, then turned and looked at her husband. The light made a glistening
appearance on her eyes; she had become silent, allowing facts to speak
for themselves.

The child stared at the stranger in astonishment.

'Who are you?' he asked at length.

Rodman laughed as heartily as if there had been nothing disagreeable in
the situation.

'I have the honour to be your father, sir,' he replied. 'You're a fine
boy, Jack--a deuced fine boy.'

The child was speechless. Rodman turned to the mother. Her hands held
the rail at the foot of the bed, and as the boy looked up at her for
explanation she let her face fall upon them and sobbed.

'If you're father come back,' exclaimed Jack indignantly, 'why do you
make mother cry?'

Rodman was still mirthful.

'I like you, Jack,' he said. 'You'll make a man some day. D