“Mr. Cantycot!” It was Mrs. Crowl’s voice that broke in upon the tirade.  “There’s a gentleman to see you.”  The astonishment Mrs. Crowl put into the “gentleman” was delightful.  It was almost as good as a week’s rent to her to give vent to her feelings.  The controversial couple had moved away from the window when Tom entered, and had not noticed the immediate advent of another visitor who had spent his time profitably in listening to Mrs. Crowl before asking to see the presumable object of his visit.

“Ask him up if it’s a friend of yours, Cantercot,” said Peter.  It was Wimp.  Denzil was rather dubious as to the friendship, but he preferred to take Wimp diluted.  “Mortlake’s upstairs,” he said; “will you come up and see him?”

Wimp had intended a duologue, but he made no objection, so he, too, stumbled through the nine brats to Mrs. Crowl’s bedroom.  It was a queer quartette.  Wimp had hardly expected to find anybody at the house on Boxing Day, but he did not care to waste a day.  Was not Grodman, too, on the track?  How lucky it was that Denzil had made the first overtures, so that he could approach him without exciting suspicion.

Mortlake scowled when he saw the detective.  He objected to the police—­on principle.  But Crowl had no idea who the visitor was, even when told his name.  He was rather pleased to meet one of Denzil’s high-class friends, and welcomed him warmly.  Probably he was some famous editor, which would account for his name stirring vague recollections.  He summoned the eldest brat and sent him for beer (people would have their Fads), and not without trepidation called down to “Mother” for glasses.  “Mother” observed at night (in the same apartment) that the beer money might have paid the week’s school fees for half the family.

“We were just talking of poor Mr. Constant’s portrait, Mr. Wimp,” said the unconscious Crowl; “they’re going to unveil it, Mortlake tells me, on the twenty-first of next month at the Bow Break o’ Day Club.”

“Ah,” said Wimp, elate at being spared the trouble of manoeuvring the conversation; “mysterious affair that, Mr. Crowl.”

“No; it’s the right thing,” said Peter.  “There ought to be some memorial of the man in the district where he worked and where he died, poor chap.”  The cobbler brushed away a tear.

“Yes, it’s only right,” echoed Mortlake, a whit eagerly.  “He was a noble fellow, a true philanthropist—­the only thoroughly unselfish worker I’ve ever met.”

“He was that,” said Peter; “and it’s a rare pattern is unselfishness.  Poor fellow, poor fellow.  He preached the Useful, too.  I’ve never met his like.  Ah, I wish there was a heaven for him to go to!” He blew his nose violently with a red pocket-handkerchief.

“Well, he’s there, if there is,” said Tom.

“I hope he is,” added Wimp, fervently; “but I shouldn’t like to go there the way he did.”

“You were the last person to see him, Tom, weren’t you?” said Denzil.