ted itself at moments into a
grin of quaint drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist.

"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresay
it's because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights."

"How's that?"

"It's my poor sister, sir--my sister Liza, I mean--she's had one of her
worst headaches--the extra special, we call 'em. This time it's lasted
more than three days, and not one minute of rest has the poor thing
got."

Warburton was all sympathy; he inquired about the case as though it
were that of an intimate friend. Change of air and repose were obvious
remedies; no less obviously, these things were out of the question for
a working woman who lived on a few shillings a week.

"Do you know of any place she could go to?" asked Warburton, adding
carelessly, "if the means were provided."

Mrs. Hopper squeezed herself more tightly than ever between door and
jamb. Her head was bent in an abashed way, and when she spoke it was in
a thick, gurgling tone, only just intelligible.

"There's a little lodging 'ouse at Southend, sir, where we used to go
when my 'usband could afford it."

"Well, look here. Get a doctor's opinion whether Southend would do; if
not, which place would. And just send her away. Don't worry about the
money."

Experience enabled Mrs. Hopper to interpret this advice. She stammered
gratitude.

"How's your other sister--Mrs. Allchin?" Warburton inquired kindly.

"Why, sir, she's doing pretty well in her 'ealth, sir, but her baby
died yesterday week. I hope you'll excuse me, sir, for all this bad
news just when you come back from your holiday, and when it's natural
as you don't feel in very good spirits."

Will had much ado not to laugh. On his return from a holiday, Mrs.
Hopper always presumed him to be despondent in view of the resumption
of daily work. He was beginning to talk of Mrs. Allchin's troubles,
when at the outer door sounded a long nervous knock.

"Ha! That's Mr. Franks."

Mrs. Hopper ran to admit the visitor.

CHAPTER 2

"Warburton!" cried a high-pitched voice from the passage. "Have you
seen _The Art World_?"

And there rushed into the room a tall, auburn-headed young man of
five-and-twenty, his comely face glowing in excitement. With one hand
he grasped his friend's, in the other he held out a magazine.

"You haven't seen it! Look here! What d'you think of that, confound
you!"

He had opened the magazine so as to displ