“I don’t call that much,” said Jenny, critically, with a pin in her mouth.  “Not much more than I told him an hour ago.  He wants a murder, or a divorce.  All these little tin-pot accidents aren’t worth printing at all.  What he wants is the cross-examination of the man who found the bones.”

It was comical to notice the change on Alf at Jenny’s interruption.  From the painful concentration upon memory which had brought his eyebrows together there appeared in his expression the most delighted ease, a sort of archness that made his face look healthy and honest.

“What’s that you’re doing?” he eagerly inquired, forsaking Pa, and obviously thankful at having an opportunity to address Jenny directly.  He came over and stood by the table, in spite of the physical effort which Emmy involuntarily made to will that he should not do so.  Emmy’s eyes grew tragic at his intimate, possessive manner in speaking to Jenny.  “I say!” continued Alf, admiringly.  “A new hat, is it?  Smart!  Looks absolutely A1.  Real West End style, isn’t it?  Going to have some chiffong?”

“Sit down, Alf.”  It was Emmy who spoke, motioning him to a chair opposite to Pa.  He took it, his shoulder to Jenny, while Emmy sat by the table, looking at him, her hands in her lap.

“How is he?” Alf asked, jerking his head at Pa.  “Perked up when I said ‘bigamy,’ didn’t he!”

“He’s been very good, I will say,” answered Emmy.  “Been quiet all day.  And he ate his supper as good as gold.”  Jenny’s smile and little amused crouching of the shoulders caught her eye.  “Well, so he did!” she insisted.  Jenny took no notice.  “He’s had his—­mustn’t say it, because he always hears that word, and it’s not time for his evening ...  Eight o’clock he has it.”

“What’s that?” said Alf, incautiously.  “Beer?”

“Beer!” cried Pa.  “Beer!” It was the cry of one who had been malignantly defrauded, a piteous wail.

“There!” said both the girls, simultaneously.  Jenny added:  “Now you’ve done it!”

“All right, Pa!  Not time yet!” But Emmy went to the kitchen cupboard as Pa continued to express the yearning that filled his aged heart.

“Sorry!” whispered Alf.  “Hold me hand out, naughty boy!”

“He’s like a baby with his titty bottle,” explained Emmy.  “Now he’ll be quiet again.”

Alf fidgeted a little.  This contretemps had unnerved him.  He was less sure of himself.

“Well,” he said at last, darkly.  “What I came in about ...  Quarter to eight, is it?  By Jove, I’m late.  That’s telling Mr. Blanchard all the news.  The fact is, I’ve got a couple of tickets for the theatre down the road—­for this evening, I thought ... erum ...”

“Oh, extravagance!” cried Jenny, gaily, dropping the pin from between her lips and looking in an amused flurry at Emmy’s anguished face opposite.  It was as though a chill had struck across the room, as though both Emmy’s heart and her own had given a sharp twist at the shock.