At last she reached the end of her journey, and addressing herself to the tutelary policeman solemnly pacing past the Tavern where the omnibus paused, she asked to be directed to Legrave Crescent.

It was an old-fashioned row of houses, before them a few sooty trees in a half-moon of grass, one side railed off from the street and dignified with gates at either end—­gates which were always open.

The place had a still, deserted air, but about the middle stood a cab, on which a rheumatic driver, assisted by a small boy, was placing a cumbrous box.  As Katherine approached she found that the house before which it stood bore the number she sought, and on reaching it she found the door held open by a little smutty girl, the very lowest type of slavey, with unkempt hair, and a rough holland apron of the grimiest aspect.  On the top step stood a stout woman, fairly well dressed in a large shawl and a straw bonnet largely decorated with crushed artificial flowers; a very red, angry face appeared beneath it, with watery eyes and a coarse, half-open mouth.  All this Katherine saw, but hardly observed, so strongly was her attention attracted to a figure that stood a few paces within the entrance—­a tall, thin old man, bent and leaning on a stick.  He was wrapped in a long dressing-gown of dull dark gray, evidently much worn; slippers were on his feet, and a black velvet skull-cap on his head, from under which some thin straggling locks of white hair escaped.  His thin aquiline features and dark sunken eyes were alight with an expression of malignant fury; one long claw-like hand was outstretched with a gesture of dismissal, the other grasped the top of his stick.  “Begone, you accursed drunken thief!” he was almost screaming in a shrill voice.  “I would take you to the police, court if there was anything to be got out of you; but it would only be throwing good money away after bad.  Get you gone to the ditch where you’ll die!  You guzzling, muzzling fool, to leave my house without a shilling after all your pilfering!”

While he uttered these words with frightful vehemence, the woman he addressed kept up a rapid undercurrent of reply.

“Living with a miserable screwy miser like you would make a saint drink!  Do you think people will serve you for nothing, and not pay themselves somehow?  The likes of you are born to be robbed—­and may your last crust be stole from you, you old skinflint!” With this last defiance, she turned and threw herself hastily into the cab, which crawled away as if horse and driver were equally rheumatic.

“Shut the door,” said the old man, hoarsely, as if exhausted.

“Please, sir, there’s a lady here,” said the little slavey.  Katherine, who was as frightened as if she were face to face with a lunatic, had a terrible conviction that this appalling old man was her uncle.  How should she ever address him?  What an unfortunate time to have fallen upon!

“What do you want?” asked the old man, fiercely, frowning till his shaggy white eyebrows almost met over his angry black eyes.