“Oh, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed.  “I heard a great crash.”

“This gentleman is going to clear me, Meg, my dear,” blurted out the old man irrepressibly.  “And I’ve done with the drink for ever.”

“Hutchins!  Hutchins!” said Carrados warningly.

“My daughter, sir; you wouldn’t have her not know?” pleaded Hutchins, rather crest-fallen.  “It won’t go any further.”

Carrados laughed quietly to himself as he felt Margaret Hutchins’s startled and questioning eyes attempting to read his mind.  He shook hands with the engine-driver without further comment, however, and walked out into the commonplace little street under Parkinson’s unobtrusive guidance.

“Very nice of Miss Hutchins to go into half-mourning, Parkinson,” he remarked as they went along.  “Thoughtful, and yet not ostentatious.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Parkinson, who had long ceased to wonder at his master’s perceptions.

“The Romans, Parkinson, had a saying to the effect that gold carries no smell.  That is a pity sometimes.  What jewellery did Miss Hutchins wear?”

“Very little, sir.  A plain gold brooch representing a merry-thought—­the merry-thought of a sparrow, I should say, sir.  The only other article was a smooth-backed gun-metal watch, suspended from a gun-metal bow.”

“Nothing showy or expensive, eh?”

“Oh dear no, sir.  Quite appropriate for a young person of her position.”

“Just what I should have expected.”  He slackened his pace.  “We are passing a hoarding, are we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will stand here a moment.  Read me the letterpress of the poster before us.”

“This ‘Oxo’ one, sir?”

“Yes.”

“‘Oxo,’ sir.”

Carrados was convulsed with silent laughter.  Parkinson had infinitely more dignity and conceded merely a tolerant recognition of the ludicrous.

“That was a bad shot, Parkinson,” remarked his master when he could speak.  “We will try another.”

For three minutes, with scrupulous conscientiousness on the part of the reader and every appearance of keen interest on the part of the hearer, there were set forth the particulars of a sale by auction of superfluous timber and builders’ material.

“That will do,” said Carrados, when the last detail had been reached.  “We can be seen from the door of No. 107 still?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No indication of anyone coming to us from there?”

“No, sir.”

Carrados walked thoughtfully on again.  In the Holloway Road they rejoined the waiting motor-car.

“Lambeth Bridge Station” was the order the driver received.

From the station the car was sent on home and Parkinson was instructed to take two first-class singles for Richmond, which could be reached by changing at Stafford Road.  The “evening rush” had not yet commenced and they had no difficulty in finding an empty carriage when the train came in.