way, and knocked sharply at the door. A girl, untidy, unwashed, with a
face that might have been pretty if the coating of dirt upon it were
removed, appeared at the bay window of the ground floor. William knew
the girl and she knew William. Unabashed, he endured her calm
scrutiny, banking on his belief that she would never "tumble" to his
errand. She looked a long time, but finally came to the door and
slowly opened it. Whereupon William promptly stepped inside.

"Is Mister Jonas in?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.

"No," she said timidly.

"Ah! gone out for a walk I suppose?" said William politely.

In the dim light of the hall she looked at him with fear in her eyes.

"He's a great walker, I believe," William went on with a tinge of
sarcasm. "Out in the mornings, out in the afternoons, takes another
stroll in the evenings. Does he ever go to sleep?"

She made no answer, and William, who was at least a head shorter,
patted her on the shoulder. "Cheer up," he said patronisingly, "it's
all right. I've just come for the rent, that's all."

"For what?" she gasped.

"The rent; hadn't you better show me where he is right away?"

"Didn't I say he wasn't in?" she answered sharply.

"You did, my dear, but I'm willing to forget it. I believe that kinder
answer goes in polite society when the lady of the house don't want to
see anybody, and the lady what calls hopes that the lady she calls on
ain't in. But it don't go with me."

"But he ain't in," the girl whined.

"Then he's out for the first time in three years," was the rejoinder,
"and it's funny he'd pick rent day for a walk; him owing two months'
rent at that. P'raps he left the money with you?"

"No."

"H'm. Then I'll wait till he comes back."

"But he won't be back until to-night."

"All the same to me. I can wait; that's part of my work."

She shifted ground uneasily, and finally burst out, "He's in the
kitchen, Will Turnpike, and you can go in yourself. He's wild today."

William walked solemnly through to the kitchen where Jonas was sitting
by the window in a great arm-chair. A weird-looking figure he was,
muffled in an old overcoat, though it was summer and the day was warm.
A growth of untrimmed whiskers through which peered crafty eyes, and a
mass of long matted hair topping a big head, gave an uncanny appearance
to the man, who was a helpless cripple through rheumatism. He glared
at William, who cordially expressed