een here all night."

"Yes, sir; I know--in the little back spare-room."

"Who told you?"

"Nettie went in for a pincushion, Mr. Rash, and the young woman was
a-doin' of 'er 'air."

"What did Nettie say?"

"It ain't what Nettie says, sir, if I may myke so bold. It's what Mrs.
Courage and Jane says."

"Tell Mrs. Courage and Jane they needn't be alarmed. The young woman
is--" Steptoe caught the spasm which contracted the boy's face--"the
young woman is--my wife."

"Quite so, sir."

If Allerton went no further, Steptoe could go no further; but inwardly
he was like a man reprieved at the last minute, and against all hope,
from sentence of death. "Then it won't be '_er_," was all he could say
to himself, "'er" being Barbara Walbrook. Whatever calamity had
happened, that calamity at least would be escaped, which was so much
to the good.

His arms trembled so that he could hardly hold up the waistcoat for
Allerton to slip it on. But he didn't slip it on. Instead he wheeled
round from the mirror, threw the brushes with a crash to the toilet
table, and cried with a rage all the more raging for being impotent:

"Steptoe, I've been every kind of fool."

"Yes, sir, I expect so."

"You've got to get me out of it, Steptoe. You must find a way to save
me."

"I'll do my best, sir." The joy of cooperation with the lad almost
made up for the anguish at his anguish. "What 'ud it be--you must
excuse me, Mr. Rash--but what 'ud it be that you'd like me to save you
from?"

Allerton threw out his arms. "From this crazy marriage. This frightful
mix-up. I went right off the handle yesterday. I was an infernal
idiot. And now I'm in for it. Something's got to be done, Steptoe, and
I can't think of any one but you to do it."

"Quite so, sir. Will you 'ave your wystcoat on now, sir? You're ready
for it, I see. I'll think it over, Mr. Rash, and let you know."

While first the waistcoat and then the coat were extended and slipped
over the shoulders, Allerton did his best to put Steptoe in possession
of the mad facts of the previous day. Though the account he gave was
incoherent, the old man understood enough.

"It wasn't her fault, you must understand," Allerton explained
further, as Steptoe brushed his hat. "She didn't want to. I persuaded
her. I wanted to do something that would wring Miss Walbrook's
heart--and I've done it! Wrung my own, too! What's to become of me,
Steptoe? Is the best thing I can do to shoot myself? Think