der the shadow of the fane. That any human being of
ill-odor should consciously come within a mile of the scent of so famous
a sleuth-hound seemed to her highly improbable. Grodman had retired
(with a competence) and was only a sleeping dog now; still, even
criminals would have sense enough to let him lie.

So Mrs. Drabdump did not really feel that there had been any danger,
especially as a second glance at the street door showed that Mortlake
had been thoughtful enough to slip the loop that held back the bolt of
the big lock. She allowed herself another throb of sympathy for the
labor leader whirling on his dreary way toward Devonport Dockyard. Not
that he had told her anything of his journey beyond the town; but she
knew Devonport had a Dockyard because Jessie Dymond--Tom's
sweetheart--once mentioned that her aunt lived near there, and it lay on
the surface that Tom had gone to help the dockers, who were imitating
their London brethren. Mrs. Drabdump did not need to be told things to
be aware of them. She went back to prepare Mr. Constant's superfine tea,
vaguely wondering why people were so discontented nowadays. But when she
brought up the tea and the toast and the eggs to Mr. Constant's
sitting-room (which adjoined his bedroom, though without communicating
with it), Mr. Constant was not sitting in it. She lit the gas, and laid
the cloth; then she returned to the landing and beat at the bedroom door
with an imperative palm. Silence alone answered her. She called him by
name and told him the hour, but hers was the only voice she heard, and
it sounded strangely to her in the shadows of the staircase. Then,
muttering, "Poor gentleman, he had the toothache last night; and p'r'aps
he's only just got a wink o' sleep. Pity to disturb him for the sake of
them grizzling conductors. I'll let him sleep his usual time," she bore
the tea-pot downstairs with a mournful, almost poetic, consciousness,
that soft-boiled eggs (like love) must grow cold.

Half-past seven came--and she knocked again. But Constant slept on.

His letters, always a strange assortment, arrived at eight, and a
telegram came soon after. Mrs. Drabdump rattled his door, shouted, and
at last put the wire under it. Her heart was beating fast enough now,
though there seemed to be a cold, clammy snake curling round it. She
went downstairs again and turned the handle of Mortlake's room, and went
in without knowing why. The coverlet of the bed showed that the occupa