“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.”

“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs. Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”

“Tchee—­tchee—­tchee,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself; “tchee—­tch

“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ’ad been bit?” said the glaring Mrs. Gimpson.

“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.

“You don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Gimpson, pityingly; “me being safe up in bed and the door locked, there was no mad dog.  There was no use for it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Boxer, “me and Mary’s going round to see that old deceiver after supper, whether you come or not.  Mary shall tell ’im I’m a friend, and ask him to tell her everything about ’er husband.  Nobody knows me here, and Mary and me’ll be affectionate like, and give ’im to understand we want to marry.  Then he won’t mind making mischief.”

“You’d better leave well alone,” said Mrs. Gimpson.

Mr. Boxer shook his head.  “I was always one for a bit o’ fun,” he said, slowly.  “I want to see his face when he finds out who I am.”

Mrs. Gimpson made no reply; she was looking round for the market-basket, and having found it she left the reunited couple to keep house while she went out to obtain a supper which should, in her daughter’s eyes, be worthy of the occasion.

She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on the way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed the end of Crowner’s Alley, she turned into that small by-way and knocked at the astrologer’s door.

A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the summons, and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most faithful and credulous clients, invited her to step inside.  Mrs. Gimpson complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white beard and small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to how to begin.

“My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last.

The astrologer nodded.

“She—­she wants to ask you about ‘er husband,” faltered’ Mrs. Gimpson; “she’s going to bring a friend with her—­a man who doesn’t believe in your knowledge.  He—­he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he wants to see what you say you know about him.”

The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her carefully.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better tell me everything.”

Mrs. Gimpson shook her head.

“There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low, thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law.  There” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and for-ward as though dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—­“there is something forming over you.  You—­or somebody—­are hiding something from me.”