“W’ich I looks towards yer, and I likewise bows,” said Tilda graciously.  “But what’s the matter?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.  “A stranger might say as you wasn’ the best o’ friends.”

“Nothin’,” answered Sam after a slight pause.  “Bit of a argymint—­ that’s all.”

“Wot about?”

“’Tisn worth mentionin’.”  Sam glanced at the other two.  “The theayter ’ere’s offered Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer an engagement.”

“Well?”

“We was discussin’ whether they ought to take it.”

“W’y not?”

“Well, you see—­Glasson bein’ about—­”

“After them too, is ‘e?  Don’t mean ter say they’ve been an’ lost their fathers an’ mothers?  No?  Then I don’t see.”

“Them ‘avin’ contracted to look after you—­”

He paused here, as Tilda, fixing him with a compassionate stare, began to shake her head slowly.

“You don’t deserve it—­you reelly don’t,” she said, more in sorrow than in anger; then with a sharp change of tone, “And you three ’ave been allowin’, I s’pose, that our best chance to escape notice is travellin’ around with a fur coat an’ a sixty-foot Theayter Royal? . . .  W’y, wot was it put Glasson on our tracks? . . .  Oh, I’m not blamin’ yer!  Some folks—­most folks, I’m comin’ to think—­just can’t ’elp theirselves.  But it’s saddenin’.”

“0’ course,” suggested Sam, “I might take on the job single-’anded.  My orders don’t go beyond this place; but the beer’ll wait, and ’Ucks per’aps won’t mind my takin’ a ’oliday—­not if I explain.”

Tilda regarded him for a while before answering.  When at length she spoke, it was with a fine, if weary, patience—­“Got pen-an’-ink, any of yer?”

Mrs. Mortimer arose, stepped to a bundle of shawls lying in a Windsor chair, unwrapped a portable writing-case which appeared to be the kernel of the bundle, and laid it on the table—­all this with extreme docility.

“I’ll trouble you to do the writin’,” said Tilda, laying a sheet of paper before Sam after she had chosen a pen and unsnapped the ink-case.

“Why not Mortimer?” he protested feebly.

“I wouldn’ make Arguin’ a ’abit, if I was you.”

Sam collapsed and took the pen from her, after eyeing the palms of his hands as though he had a mind to spit on them.

“Now write,” she commanded, and began to dictate slowly.

She had taken command of the room.  The Mortimers could only stand by and listen, as helpless as Arthur Miles.  She spoke deliberately, patiently, indulging all Sam’s slowness of penmanship—­

“’DEAR Mr.  ’UCKS,—­This comes ‘opin’ to find you well as it leaves us all at present.  I promised to write in my own ’and; but time is pressin’, as I am goin’ to tell you.  So you must please put up with Mr. Bossom, and excuse mistakes.  I will sign this to let you know there is no fake.  We are at Stratford-on-Avon:  w’ich for slow goin’ must be a record:  but all well and ’earty.  Mr. M. ’as ’ad luck with ‘is actin’—­’ ’Ow much?”