One afternoon he was on his way home from a westward trudge, plodding along the remoter part of Fulham Road, when words spoken by a woman whom he passed caught his ears.

“See ’ere!  The shutters is up.  Boxon must be dead.”

Boxon?  How did he come to know that name?  He slackened his pace, reflecting.  Why, Boxon was the name of the betting and drinking grocer, with whom Allchin used to be.  He stopped, and saw a group of three or four women staring at the closed shop.  Didn’t Mrs. Hopper say that Boxon had been nearly killed in a carriage accident?  Doubtless he was dead.

He walked on, but before he had gone a dozen yards, stopped abruptly, turned, crossed to the other side of the road, and went back till he stood opposite the closed shop.  The name of the tradesman in great gilt letters proved that there was no mistake.  He examined the building; there were two storys above the shop; the first seemed to be used for storage; white blinds at the windows of the second showed it to be inhabited.  For some five minutes Will stood gazing and reflecting; then, with head bent as before, he pursued his way.

When he reached home, Mrs. Hopper regarded him compassionately; the good woman was much disturbed by the strangeness of his demeanour lately, and feared he was going to be ill.

“You look dre’ful tired, sir,” she said.  “I’ll make you a cup of tea at once.  It’ll do you good.”

“Yes, get me some tea,” answered Warburton, absently.  Then, as she was leaving the room, he asked, “Is it true that the grocer Boxon is dead?”

“I was going to speak of it this morning, sir,” replied Mrs. Hopper, “but you seemed so busy.  Yes, sir, he’s died—­died the day before yesterday, they say, and it’d be surprising to hear as anybody’s sorry.”

“Who’ll take his business?” asked Warburton.

“We was talking about that last night, sir, me and my sister Liza, and the Allchins.  It’s fallen off a great deal lately, what else could you expect? since Boxon got into his bad ways.  But anybody as had a little money might do well there.  Allchin was saying he wished he had a few ’undreds.”

“A few hundred would be enough?” interrupted the listener, without noticing the look of peculiar eagerness on Mrs. Hopper’s face.

“Allchin thinks the goodwill can be had for about a ’undred, sir; and the rent, it’s only eighty pounds—­”

“Shop and house?”

“Yes, sir; so Allchin says.  It isn’t much of a ’ouse, of course.”

“What profits could be made, do you suppose, by an energetic man?”

“When Boxon began, sir,” replied Mrs. Hopper, with growing animation, “he used to make—­so Allchin says—­a good five or six ’undred a year.  There’s a good deal of profit in the grocery business, and Boxon’s situation is good; there’s no other grocer near him.  But of course—­as Allchin says—­you want to lay out a good deal at starting—­”