ent came the sound of
the electric bell to startle Philippa in the midst of her dreams. In
response to the summons the little maid went to the door, and a man's
voice was heard inquiring if Miss Charrington was at home. Philippa
gasped in dismay, and offered up a mental prayer that Mary would
remember to show the visitor into the drawing-room. But Mary had no
intention of doing anything of the kind. Of experience she had none,
but her sense of fitness told her that when a gentleman wished to see
the missus he should be shown into her presence as speedily as possible.
She opened the door of the dining-room for about the space of six
inches, peered round the corner, announced, "Here's a gentleman," and
promptly retired to her lair, leaving the stranger standing on the mat.
Philippa groaned in spirit over her own negligence, vowed that not
another day should elapse before Mary was instructed in the art of
introducing visitors, and walked forward to discover the identity of the
stranger.

Alas! the first glance brought a prevision of trouble; she saw before
her the stooping form, the thin, cadaverous face of the "Hermit,"
occupant of Number 9. He bowed, she bowed, invited him into the room by
a wave of the hand, and stood before him in questioning silence. Seen
close at hand, the Hermit was younger and less austere than he had
appeared from a distance; his features, though emaciated, were
delicately moulded, and the eyes that looked out of the hollow caverns
were bright and alert with life. It was the face of a man whose body
was the slave of his brain--a man who forgot his meals in the interest
of work; who turned day into night, and persistently ignored physical
ills--a striking contrast to the girl beside him, with her glowing
cheeks and tall, well-developed figure.

"You wished to see me?" asked Philippa, to end the silence. The Hermit
coughed nervously, and turning his hat to and fro, nicked the dust from
the brim.

"I--er--yes. I came to the conclusion that a personal interview was
necessary. I have tried--er--other means of protest, but, as you are
aware, without success. The case in point is--er--briefly this, that I
cannot any longer submit to the annoyance which I have suffered since
you have taken possession of this flat, and by which my work is
seriously interrupted. The ordinary noise of a household I must of
course, endure, but that is a different thing from wilful, intentional
disturbance."