‘It’s love for her as has done it then,’ said Bozzle, shaking his head.

’I’m not a taking of her part, B. A woman as has a husband as finds her with her wittels regular, and with what’s decent and comfortable beside, ought to be contented.  I’ve never said no other than that.  I ain’t no patience with your saucy madames as can’t remember as they’re eating an honest man’s bread.  Drat ’em all; what is it they wants?  They don’t know what they wants.  It’s just hidleness cause there ain’t a ha’porth for ’em to do.  It’s that as makes ’em, I won’t say what.  But as for this here child, B. . . .’  At that moment there came a knock at the door.  Mrs Bozzle going into the passage, opened it herself, and saw a strange gentleman.  Bozzle, who had stood at the inner door, saw that the gentleman was Mr Trevelyan.

The letter, which was still in the ex-policeman’s hand, had reached Stony Walk on the previous day; but the master of the house had been absent, finding out facts, following up his profession, and earning an honest penny.  Trevelyan had followed his letter quicker than he had intended when it was written, and was now with his prime minister, before his prime minister had been able to take any action on the last instruction received.  ‘Does one Mr Samuel Bozzle live here?’ asked Trevelyan.  Then Bozzle came forward and introduced his wife.  There was no one else present except the baby, and Bozzle intimated that let matters be as delicate as they might, they could be discussed with perfect security in his wife’s presence.  But Trevelyan was of a different opinion, and he was disgusted and revolted most unreasonably by the appearance of his minister’s domestic arrangements.  Bozzle had always waited upon him with a decent coat, and a well-brushed hat, and clean shoes.  It is very much easier for such men as Mr Bozzle to carry decency of appearance about with them than to keep it at home.  Trevelyan had never believed his ally to be more than an ordinary ex-policeman, but he had not considered how unattractive might be the interior of a private detective’s private residence.  Mrs Bozzle had set a chair for him, but he had declined to sit down.  The room was dirty, and very close as though no breath of air was ever allowed to find entrance there.  ’Perhaps you could put on your coat, and walk out with me for a few minutes,’ said Trevelyan.  Mrs Bozzle, who well understood that business was business, and that wives were not business, felt no anger at this, and handed her husband his best coat.  The well-brushed hat was fetched from a cupboard, and it was astonishing to see how easily and how quickly the outer respectability of Bozzle was restored.

‘Well?’ said Trevelyan, as soon as they were together in the middle of Stony Walk.

‘There hasn’t been nothing to be done, sir,’ said Bozzle.