ntil past one o'clock.
Topham did not appear, and indeed never came back at all. The overworked
corresponding tutor was taking his ease at the seaside on the strength of a
quarter's salary in advance, which Mr. Wigmore, tremulously anxious to
clinch their bargain, had insisted on paying him. Before leaving London he
had written to Starkey, apologising for his abrupt departure, 'The result
of unforeseen circumstances.' He enclosed six penny stamps in repayment of
a sum lent, and added--

'When I think of my great debt to you I despair of expressing my gratitude.
Be assured, however, that the name of Starkey will always be cherished in
my remembrance.'

Under that name Topham dwelt with the retired shopkeeper, and assiduously
discharged his tutorial duties. A day came when, relying upon the
friendship between them, and his pupil's exultation in the progress
achieved, the tutor unbosomed himself. Having heard the whole story,
Wigmore laughed a great deal, and declared that such a fellow as Starkey
was rightly served.

'But,' he inquired, after reflection, 'how was it the man never wrote to
ask why I sent no more work?'

'That asks for further confession. While at the seaside I wrote, in a
disguised hand, a letter supposed to come from a brother of yours in which
I said you were very ill and must cease your correspondence. Starkey hadn't
the decency to reply, but if he had done so I should have got his letter at
the post-office.'

Mr. Wigmore looked troubled for a moment. However, this too was laughed
away, and the pursuit of gentility went on as rigorously as ever.

But Topham, musing over his good luck, thought with a shiver on how small
an accident it had depended. Had Starkey been at home when the fruiterer
called, he, it was plain, would have had the offer of this engagement.

'With the result that dear old Wigmore would have been bled for who knows
how many years by a mere swindler. Whereas he is really being educated,
and, for all I know, may some day adorn the Church of England.' Such
thoughts are very consoling.

A LODGER IN MAZE POND

Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room,
with a cigar and a review. At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in
August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, there
entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by
all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering
newspapers and