er, and Mr. Bower lowered first one eyelid, then
the other.

'Is Grail still at his work?' Mrs. Bower inquired.

'Safe enough. He goes on till Saturday. Ackroyd told me so yesterday.'

'And her sister's at work too?'

'Safe enough.'

'Is the workmen there still?'

'No, they're all out. Safe enough.'

Mr. Bower seemed to find a satisfaction in repeating the significant
phrase. He chuckled disagreeably.

'It looks queer,' remarked his wife, with a certain contemptuousness.

'It looks uncommon queer. I wonder whether old Mrs. Butterfield
happened to be safe likewise.' He nodded. 'I'll look in and have a word
with the old lady to-night, eh?'

Mrs. Butterfield's husband, some years deceased, had been a
fellow-workman with Bower. The latter, prying about the school-building
as soon as he heard that Egremont was going to convert it into a
library, had discovered that the caretaker was known to him. There
seemed at the time no particular profit to be derived from the
circumstance, but Mr. Bower regarded it much as he would have done a
piece of lumber that might have come into his possession, as a thing
just to be kept in mind, if perchance some use for it should some day
be discovered. It is this habit of thought that helps the Bower species
to become petty capitalists. We call it thrift, and--respecting public
opinion--we do not refuse our admiration.

On Monday evening, about eight o'clock, Mr. Bower went up to the
house-door in the rear of the building, and knocked. The door was
opened about two inches, and an aged voice asked who was there.

'It's me, Mrs. Butterfield--Bower,' was the pleasantly modulated reply.

The door opened a little wider.

'Does Mr. Egremont happen to be here?' the visitor went on to ask.

'No, Mr. Bower, he ain't here, nor likely to come again to night, I
shouldn't think.'

'Never mind. I dare say you'd let me have a look in, just to see how
things is goin' on. I saw him at the window as I passed at dinner-time,
and we just nodded to each other, but I hadn't time to stop.'

The old woman admitted him. In the house was an exultant savour of
frying onions; a hissing sound came from the sitting-room.

'Cooking your supper, eh, Mrs. Butterfield?' said Bower, with genial
familiarity. 'Why, that's right make yourself comfortable. Don't you
fuss about, now; I'll sit down here; I like the smell.'

Mrs. Butterfield was not at all the same woman with this visitor that
she was with stran