“’S a female,” decided Mr. Mortimer, pulling himself together and advancing with a hand over his brow, the better to distinguish the glimmer of her dress. “’S undoubtedly a female.  Seems to be looking for something . . .”  He approached and lifted his hat.  “Command me, madam!”

The woman drew herself yet closer under the shadow.

“Go your way, please!” she answered sharply, with a catch of her breath.

“You mishun’erstand.  Allow me iggs—­I beg pardon, eggs—­plain.  Name’s Mortimer—­Stanislas ’Ratio, of that ilk.  A Scotch exshpression.”  Here he pulled himself together again, and with an air of anxious lucidity laid a precise accent on every syllable.  “The name, I flatter myself, should be a guarantee.  No reveller, madam, I s’hure you; appearances against me, but no Bacchanal; still lesh—­shtill less I should iggs—­or, if you prefer it, eggs—­plain, gay Lothario.  Trust me, ma’am—­married man, fifteen years’ standing—­Arabella—­tha’s my wife—­ never a moment’s ’neasiness—­”

  ‘Two shouls’—­you’ll excuse me, souls—­’ with but a single thought,
   Two hearts that beat ash one.’

“Between you and me, ma’am, we have thoughts of applying for Dunmow flitch.  Quaint old custom, Dunmow flitch.  Heard of it, I dareshay?”

“I wish you would go about your business.”

Mr. Mortimer emitted a tragic laugh.

“I will, madam—­I will:  if it please you witness to what base uses we may return, Horatio.  Allow me first remove mishunderstanding.  Preshumed you to be searching for something—­hairpin for exshample.  Common occurrence with my Arabella.  No offensh—­merely proffered my shervices . . .  The deuce!  What’s that?”

The woman seemed inclined to run, but stood hesitating.

“You heard it?  There! close under the wall—­”

Mr. Mortimer stepped forward and peered into the shadow.  He was standing close above the manhole, and to the confusion of all his senses he saw the cover of the manhole lift itself up; saw the rim of it rise two, three inches, saw and heard it joggle back into its socket.

“For God’s sake go away!” breathed the woman.

“Norrabit of it, ma’am.  Something wrong here.  Citizen’s duty, anything wrong—­”

Here the cover lifted itself again.  Mr. Mortimer deftly slipped three fingers under its rim, and reaching back with his other hand produced from his pocket the second of Sam’s two matches.

“Below there!” he hailed sepulchrally, at the same moment striking the match on the tense seat of his trousers and holding it to the aperture.  “Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness . . .  Eh? . . .  Good Lord!”—­ he drew back and dropped the match—­“it’s a clergyman!”

He clapped down the cover in haste, sprang to his feet, and lifting his hat, made her the discreetest of bows.  He was sober, now, as a judge.

“A thousand pardons, madam!  I have seen nothing—­believe me, nothing.”