. As they drew near to
the London terminus, Mr. Lott bent forward to his friend.

'I want to buy a present for my eldest nephew,' he remarked, 'but I can't
for the life of me think what it had better be.'

'Perhaps you'll see something in a shop-window,' suggested Mr. Daffy.

'Maybe I shall.'

They alighted at Liverpool Street. Mr. Lott hailed a hansom, and they were
driven to a street in Southwark, where, at the entrance of a building
divided into offices, one perceived the name of Bowles and Perkins. This
firm was on the fifth floor, and Mr. Daffy eyed the staircase with
misgiving.

'No need for you to go up,' said his companion. 'Wait here, and I'll see if
I can get the address.'

Mr. Lott was absent for only a few minutes. He came down again with his
lips hard set, knocking each step sharply with his walking-stick.

'I've got it,' he said, and named a southern suburb.

'Have you seen Mr. Bowles?'

'No; he's out of town,' was the reply. 'Saw his partner.'

They walked side by side for a short way, then Mr. Lott stopped.

'Do you know _my_ idea? It's a little after eleven. I'm going to see my
daughter, and I dare say I shall catch the 3.49 home from Liverpool Street.
Suppose we take our chance of meeting there?'

Thus it was agreed. Mr. Daffy turned in the direction of his son's abode;
the timber-merchant went northward, and presently reached Finsbury Park,
where in a house of unpretentious but decent appearance, dwelt Mr. Bowles.
The servant who answered the door wore a strange look, as if something had
alarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, on
going to inquire, shut the door on the visitor's face. A few minutes
elapsed before Mr. Lott was admitted. The hall struck him as rather bare;
and at the entrance of the drawing-room he stopped in astonishment, for,
excepting the window-curtains and a few ornaments, the room was quite
unfurnished. At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, and
her head bent--an attitude indicative of distress or shame.

'Are you moving, Jane?' inquired Mr. Lott, eyeing her curiously.

His daughter looked at him. She had a comely face, with no little of the
paternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyes
bespoke a perturbed humour, and her voice was only just audible.

'Yes, we are moving, father.'

Mr. Lott's heavy footfall crossed the floor. He planted himself before her,
his hands resting on his stick.