Councillor Batchgrew turned to the left, and through a small hole in the painted wall Rachel saw a bright beam shooting out in the shape of a cone—­forests, and the unreal denizens of forests shimmering across the entire auditorium to impinge on the screen!  And she heard the steady rattle of a revolving machine.  Then Batchgrew beckoned her into a very small, queerly shaped room furnished with a table and a chair and a single electric lamp that hung by a cord from a rough hook in the ceiling.  A boy stood near the door holding three tin boxes one above another in his arms, and keeping the top one in position with his chin.  These boxes were similar to that in which Louis’ tickets had been dropped.

“Did you want your boxes, sir?” asked the boy.

“Put ’em down,” Thomas Batchgrew growled.

The boy deposited them in haste on the table and hurried out.

“How is Mrs. Maldon?” demanded Mr. Batchgrew with curtness, after he had snorted and sniffed.  He remained standing near to Rachel.

“Oh, she’s very much better,” said Rachel eagerly.  “She was asleep when I left.”

“Have ye left her by herself?” Mr. Batchgrew continued his inquiry.  His voice was as offensive as thick dark glue.

“Of course not!  Mrs. Tams is sitting up with her.”  Rachel meant her tone to be a dignified reproof to Thomas Batchgrew for daring to assume even the possibility of her having left Mrs. Maldon to solitude.  But she did not succeed, because she could not manage her tone.  She desired intensely to be the self-possessed, mature woman, sure of her position and of her sagacity; but she could be nothing save the absurd, guilty, stammering, blushing little girl, shifting her feet and looking everywhere except boldly into Thomas Batchgrew’s horrid eyes.

“So it’s Mrs. Tams as is sitting with her!”

Rachel could not help explaining—­

“I had to come down town to do some shopping for Sunday.  Somebody had to come.  Mr. Fores had called in to ask after Mrs. Maldon, and so he walked down with me.”  Every word she said appeared intolerably foolish to her as she uttered it.

“And then he brought ye in here!” Batchgrew grimly completed the tale.

“We came in here for ten minutes or so, as I’d finished my shopping so quickly.  Mr. Fores has just run across to the butcher’s to get something that was forgotten.”

Mr. Batchgrew coughed loosely and loudly.  And beyond the cough, beyond the confines of the ugly little room which imprisoned her so close to old Batchgrew and his grotesque whiskers, Rachel could hear the harsh, quick laughter of the audience, and then faint music—­far off.

“If young Fores was here,” said Mr. Batchgrew brutally, “I should tell him straight as he might do better than to go gallivanting about the town until that there money’s found.”

He turned towards his boxes.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Batchgrew,” said Rachel, tapping her foot and trying to be very dignified.