“You have seen a great deal of him lately,” she said.  “Have you, really and truly, seen that?”

“Really and truly,” I answered.  “I am quite certain of what will happen to-morrow.  I wish I could feel as certain of what will happen to-night.”

At that point in the conversation, we were interrupted by the appearance of Betteredge with the tea-tray.  He gave me another significant look as he passed on into the sitting-room.  “Aye! aye! make your hay while the sun shines.  The Tartar’s upstairs, Mr. Jennings—­the Tartar’s upstairs!”

We followed him into the room.  A little old lady, in a corner, very nicely dressed, and very deeply absorbed over a smart piece of embroidery, dropped her work in her lap, and uttered a faint little scream at the first sight of my gipsy complexion and my piebald hair.

“Mrs. Merridew,” said Miss Verinder, “this is Mr. Jennings.”

“I beg Mr. Jennings’s pardon,” said the old lady, looking at Miss Verinder, and speaking at me.  “Railway travelling always makes me nervous.  I am endeavouring to quiet my mind by occupying myself as usual.  I don’t know whether my embroidery is out of place, on this extraordinary occasion.  If it interferes with Mr. Jennings’s medical views, I shall be happy to put it away of course.”

I hastened to sanction the presence of the embroidery, exactly as I had sanctioned the absence of the burst buzzard and the Cupid’s wing.  Mrs. Merridew made an effort—­a grateful effort—­to look at my hair.  No! it was not to be done.  Mrs. Merridew looked back again at Miss Verinder.

“If Mr. Jennings will permit me,” pursued the old lady, “I should like to ask a favour.  Mr. Jennings is about to try a scientific experiment to-night.  I used to attend scientific experiments when I was a girl at school.  They invariably ended in an explosion.  If Mr. Jennings will be so very kind, I should like to be warned of the explosion this time.  With a view to getting it over, if possible, before I go to bed.”

I attempted to assure Mrs. Merridew that an explosion was not included in the programme on this occasion.

“No,” said the old lady.  “I am much obliged to Mr. Jennings—­I am aware that he is only deceiving me for my own good.  I prefer plain dealing.  I am quite resigned to the explosion—­but I do want to get it over, if possible, before I go to bed.”

Here the door opened, and Mrs. Merridew uttered another little scream.  The advent of the explosion?  No:  only the advent of Betteredge.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings,” said Betteredge, in his most elaborately confidential manner.  “Mr. Franklin wishes to know where you are.  Being under your orders to deceive him, in respect to the presence of my young lady in the house, I have said I don’t know.  That you will please to observe, was a lie.  Having one foot already in the grave, sir, the fewer lies you expect me to tell, the more I shall be indebted to you, when my conscience pricks me and my time comes.”