“He wouldn’t hurt me,” said Mr. Simpson, with an attempt at facetiousness.  “He’s the best friend I ever had.  Why, we slept in the same cradle.”

“I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mrs. Simpson.  “You get out of my house before I send for the police.  How dare you come into a respectable woman’s house in this fashion?  Be off with you.”

“Now, look here, Milly——­” began Mr. Simpson.

His wife drew herself up to her full height of four feet eleven.

“I’ve had a hair-cut and a shave,” pursued her husband; “also I’ve had my hair restored to its natural colour.  But I’m the same man, and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the kind,” said his wife, doggedly.  “I don’t know you from Adam.  I’ve never seen you before, and I don’t want to see you again.  You go away.”

“I’m your husband, and my place is at home,” replied Mr. Simpson.  “A man can have a shave if he likes, can’t he?  Where’s my supper?”

“Go on,” said his wife.  “Keep it up.  But be careful my husband don’t come in and catch you, that’s all.”

Mr. Simpson gazed at her fixedly, and then, with an impatient exclamation, walked into the small kitchen and began to set the supper.  A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, butter, and cheese made an appetizing display.  Then he took a jug from the dresser and descended to the cellar.

A musical trickling fell on the ear of Mrs. Simpson as she stood at the parlour door, and drew her stealthily to the cellar.  The key was in the lock, and, with a sudden movement, she closed the door and locked it.  A sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his discomfiture.

“Now I’m off for the police,” cried his wife.

“Don’t be a fool,” shouted Mr. Simpson, tugging wildly at the door-handle.  “Open the door.”

Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her husband resumed his efforts until the door-knob, unused to such treatment, came off in his hand.  A sudden scrambling noise on the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he had not pulled it off intentionally.

She stood for a few moments, considering.  It was a stout door and opened inwards.  She took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen and, walking softly to the street-door, set off to lay the case before a brother who lived a few doors away.

“Poor old Bill,” said Mr. Cooper, when she had finished.  “Still, it might be worse; he’s got the barrel o’ beer with him.”

“It’s not Bill,” said Mrs. Simpson.

Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and looked at his wife.

“She ought to know,” said the latter.  “We’ll come and have a look at him,” said Mr. Cooper.

Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him dubiously.

“Come in and have a bit of supper,” she said at last.  “There’s a nice piece of beef and pickles.”

“And Bill—­I mean the stranger—­sitting on the beer-barrel,” said Mr. Cooper, gloomily.