of Mr. Scarrick's traffic in
falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.

"I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the
absence of colouring matter in the jam," whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes
tragically.

The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw
a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and
upturned astrachan collar. After a cautious interval the seeker after
oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to
find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements. He, too,
took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and
gossip laden customers. It was Emily Yorling's "day", and most of the
shoppers made their way to her drawing-room. To go direct from a
shopping expedition to a tea party was what was known locally as "living
in a whirl".

Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, and
their services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded. People bought
and bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists. Mr.
Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers to
embark on new experiences in grocery wares. Even those women whose
purchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they had
brutal, drunken husbands to go home to. The afternoon had dragged
uneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement when
a dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop. The excitement
seemed to have communicated itself to Mr. Scarrick; abruptly deserting a
lady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombay
duck, he intercepted the newcomer on his way to the accustomed counter
and informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quail
seed.

The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go.
He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out from
behind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges. The
boy's hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of the
orange corner. There was an expectant turn of public attention towards
the door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effective
entrance. The aunt of Mrs. Greyes declared afterwards that she found
herself sub-consciously repeating "The Assyrian came down like a wolf on
the fold" under her breath, and she was generally believed.

The