“Which beautiful old house by the river?”

“Court House.  You see it from the bridge.  You must have noticed it.”

“Oh, yes, I know the one you mean.”

“Did you happen to see or hear anything of the lady who lives in it?  Miss Lucia Harden?”

“I—­I must have seen her, but I can’t exactly say.  Do you know her?”

His words seemed to be torn from him in pieces, shaken by the violent beating of his heart.

“Know her?” said Miss Roots.  “I lived five years with her.  I taught her.”

He looked at her again in wonder, in wonder and a sort of tenderness.  For a second his heart had come to life again and leapt like a lunatic to his lips.  Happily his wits were there before it.  He stroked his upper lip, as if brushing away some wild phrase that sat there.

“Then I’m sure,” he said, contriving a smile, “that Miss Harden is an exceedingly well educated lady.”

Miss Roots’ hazel eyes looked up at him intelligently; but as they met that unnatural smile of gallantry there was a queer compression of her shrewd and strenuous face.  She changed the subject.  He wondered if by any chance she knew; if she corresponded with Miss Harden; if Miss Harden had mentioned him in the days before her troubles came; if Miss Roots were trying to test him, to draw him out as she had never drawn him out before.  No, it was not in the least likely that Miss Harden should have mentioned him; if she had, Miss Roots would have said so.  She would never have set a trap for him; she was a kind and straightforward little lady.  Her queer look meant nothing, it was only her way of dealing with a compliment.

The sweat on his forehead witnessed to the hot labour of his thought.  He wondered whether anybody had observed it.

Mr. Soper had, and drew his own conclusions.

“’E’s been at it again,” said Mr. Soper, with significance.  But nobody took any notice of him; and upstairs in the drawing-room that night his bon-bons failed to charm.

“I suppose you’re pleased,” said he, approaching his hostess, “now you’ve got Mr. Rickman back again?”

A deeper flush than the Dinner could account for was Mrs. Downey’s sole reply.

“’is manners ’aven’t improved since ’is residence in the country.  I met ’im in the City to-day—­wy, we were on the same slab of pavement—­and ’e went past and took no more notice of me than if I’d been the Peabody statue.”

“Depend upon it, he was full of something.”

“Full of unsociability and conceit.  And wot is ’e?  Wot is ’e?  ’Is father keeps a bookshop.”

“A very fine bookshop, too,” said Miss Roots.  It was the first time that she had ever spoken of her own accord to Mr. Soper.

“He may have come out lately, but you should have seen the way ’e began, in a dirty little second ’and shop in the City.  A place,” said Mr. Soper, “I wouldn’t ’ave put my nose into if I was paid.  Crammed full of narsty, mangy, ’Olloway Street rubbish.”