wo children to care for, and was looking for
another that never came; and the mother had left no more than buried her
with a little help. So he took it with him, and we heard from him once
or twice, how it fared, and that his wife took to it, and the like; and
then--well, writing's a burden. But,' with renewed interest, 'she's a
well-grown girl by now, I guess?'

'Yes,' the attorney answered absently, 'she--she's a well-grown girl.'

'And is poor Jim's wife alive?'

'Yes.'

'Ah,' the good woman answered, looking thoughtfully into the street.' If
she were not--I'd think about taking to the girl myself. It's lonely at
times without chick or child. And there's the shop to tend. She could
help with that.'

The attorney winced. He was looking ill; wretchedly ill. But he had his
back to the light, and she remarked nothing save that he seemed to be a
sombre sort of body and poor company. 'What was the Frenchman's name?'
he asked after a pause.

'Parry,' said she. And then, sharply, 'Don't they call her by it?'

'It has an English sound,' he said doubtfully, evading her question.

'That is the way he called it. But it was spelled Pare, just Pare.'

'Ah,' said Mr. Fishwick. 'That explains it.' He wondered miserably why
he had asked what did not in the least matter; since, if she were not a
Soane, it mattered not who she was. After an interval he recovered
himself with a sigh. 'Well, thank you,' he continued, 'I am much obliged
to you. And now--for the moment--good-morning, ma'am. I must wish you
good-morning,' he repeated, hurriedly; and took up his snuff.

'But that is not all?' the good woman exclaimed in astonishment. 'At any
rate you'll leave your name?'

Mr. Fishwick pursed up his lips and stared at her gloomily. 'Name?' he
said at last. 'Yes, ma'am, certainly. Brown. Mr. Peter Brown, the--the
Poultry--'

'The Poultry!' she cried, gaping at him helplessly.

'Yes, the Poultry, London. Mr. Peter Brown, the Poultry, London. And now
I have other business and shall--shall return another day. I must wish
you good-morning, ma'am, Good-morning.' And thrusting his face into his
hat, Mr. Fishwick bundled precipitately into the street, and with
singular recklessness made haste to plunge into the thickest of the
traffic, leaving the good woman in a state of amazement.

Nevertheless, he reached the inn safely. When Mr. Dunborough returned
from a futile search, his failure in which condemned him to another
twenty-four ho