and a black knobby stick.  Malise sits in his armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers, unshaved and uncollared, writing.  He pauses, smiles, lights a cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up a sheet of quarto Ms.

Malise.  “Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those excellent frock-coated gentlemen—­not a sign, not a grimace.  Only the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant Tyranny.”

While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age, in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the corridor.  She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron and a Bissell broom.  Her movements are slow and imperturbable, as if she had much time before her.  Her face is broad and dark, with Chinese eyebrows.

Malise.  Wait, Mrs. Miller!

Mrs. Miler.  I’m gettin’ be’ind’and, sir.

     She comes and stands before him.  Malise writes.

Mrs. Miler.  There’s a man ‘angin’ about below.

     Malise looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she
     stops.  But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.

Mrs. Miler.  I see him first yesterday afternoon.  I’d just been out to get meself a pennyworth o’ soda, an’ as I come in I passed ’im on the second floor, lookin’ at me with an air of suspicion.  I thought to meself at the time, I thought:  You’re a’andy sort of ’ang-dog man.

Malise.  Well?

Mrs. Miler.  Well-peekin’ down through the balusters, I see ’im lookin’ at a photograft.  That’s a funny place, I thinks, to look at pictures—­it’s so dark there, ye ‘ave to use yer eyesight.  So I giv’ a scrape with me ‘eel [She illustrates] an’ he pops it in his pocket, and puts up ’is ‘and to knock at number three.  I goes down an’ I says:  “You know there’s no one lives there, don’t yer?” “Ah!” ’e says with an air of innercence, “I wants the name of Smithers.”  “Oh!” I says, “try round the corner, number ten.”  “Ah!” ’e says tactful, “much obliged.”  “Yes,” I says, “you’ll find ’im in at this time o’ day.  Good evenin’!” And I thinks to meself [She closes one eye] Rats!  There’s a good many corners hereabouts.

Malise. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler.

Mrs. Miler.  So this mornin’, there e’ was again on the first floor with ’is ‘and raised, pretendin’ to knock at number two.  “Oh! you’re still lookin’ for ‘im?” I says, lettin’ him see I was ’is grandmother.  “Ah!” ’e says, affable, “you misdirected me; it’s here I’ve got my business.”  “That’s lucky,” I says, “cos nobody lives there neither.  Good mornin’!” And I come straight up.  If you want to see ’im at work you’ve only to go downstairs, ’e’ll be on the ground floor by now, pretendin’ to knock at number one.  Wonderful resource!