silence. Well,
good night, Ol.'

'I say,' said Mr Colclough; 'if you've nothing doing later on, bring Mr
Loring round to my place. Will you come, Mr Loring? Do! Us'll have a
drink.'

These Five Towns people certainly had a simple, sincere way of offering
hospitality that was quite irresistible. One could see that hospitality
was among their chief and keenest pleasures.

We all went to the front door to see Mr Colclough depart homewards in
his automobile. The two great acetylene head-lights sent long glaring
shafts of light down the side street. Mr Colclough, throwing the score
of the Sinfonia Domestica into the tonneau of the immense car, put on a
pair of gloves and began to circulate round the machine, tapping here,
screwing there, as chauffeurs will. Then he bent down in front to start
the engine.

'By the way, Ol,' Mr Brindley shouted from the doorway, 'it seems Simon
Fuge is dead.'

We could see the man's stooping form between the two head-lights. He
turned his head towards the house.

'Who the dagger is Simon Fuge?' he inquired. 'There's about five
thousand Fuges in th' Five Towns.'

'Oh! I thought you knew him.'

'I might, and I mightn't. It's not one o' them Fuge brothers
saggar-makers at Longshaw, is it?'

'No, It's--'

Mr Colclough had succeeded in starting his engine, and the air was rent
with gun-shots. He jumped lightly into the driver's seat.

'Well, see you later,' he cried, and was off, persuading the enormous
beast under him to describe a semicircle in the narrow street backing,
forcing forward, and backing again, to the accompaniment of the
continuous fusillade. At length he got away, drew up within two feet of
an electric tram that slid bumping down the main street, and vanished
round the corner. A little ragged boy passed, crying, 'Signal, extra,'
and Mr Brindley hailed him.

'What IS Mr Colclough?' I asked in the drawing-room.

'Manufacturer--sanitary ware,' said Mr Brindley. 'He's got one of the
best businesses in Hanbridge. I wish I'd half his income. Never buys a
book, you know.'

'He seems to play the piano very well.'

'Well, as to that, he doesn't what you may call PLAY, but he's the best
sight-reader in this district, bar me. I never met his equal. When you
come across any one who can read a thing like the Domestic Symphony
right off and never miss his place, you might send me a telegram.
Colclough's got a Steinway. Wish I had.'

Mrs Brindley had been looking through th