“Well, missis!” he said.

“That will do, thank you, Amy,” said Constance, quietly.  Amy went slowly.

“So ye’re washing him for her!” said Mr. Critchlow.

“Yes,” Constance admitted.  Spot glanced sharply at the aged man.

“An’ ye seen this bit in the paper about Sophia?” he asked, holding the Signal for her inspection.

“About Sophia?” cried Constance.  “What’s amiss?”

“Nothing’s amiss.  But they’ve got it.  It’s in the ’Staffordshire day by day’ column.  Here!  I’ll read it ye.”  He drew a long wooden spectacle-case from his waistcoat pocket, and placed a second pair of spectacles on his nose.  Then he sat down on the sofa, his knees sticking out pointedly, and read:  “’We understand that Mrs. Sophia Scales, proprietress of the famous Pension Frensham in the Rue Lord Byron, Paris’—­it’s that famous that nobody in th’ Five Towns has ever heard of it—­’is about to pay a visit to her native town, Bursley, after an absence of over thirty years.  Mrs. Scales belonged to the well-known and highly respected family of Baines.  She has recently disposed of the Pension Frensham to a limited company, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the price paid ran well into five figures.’  So ye see!” Mr. Critchlow commented.

“How do those Signal people find out things?” Constance murmured.

“Eh, bless ye, I don’t know,” said Mr. Critchlow.

This was an untruth.  Mr. Critchlow had himself given the information to the new editor of the Signal, who had soon been made aware of Critchlow’s passion for the press, and who knew how to make use of it.

“I wish it hadn’t appeared just to-day,” said Constance.

“Why?”

“Oh!  I don’t know, I wish it hadn’t.”

“Well, I’ll be touring on, missis,” said Mr. Critchlow, meaning that he would go.

He left the paper, and descended the steps with senile deliberation.  It was characteristic that he had shown no curiosity whatever as to the details of Sophia’s arrival.

Constance removed her apron,, wrapped Spot up in it, and put him in a corner of the sofa.  She then abruptly sent Amy out to buy a penny time-table.

“I thought you were going by tram to Knype,” Amy observed.

“I have decided to go by train,” said Constance, with cold dignity, as if she had decided the fate of nations.  She hated such observations from Amy, who unfortunately lacked, in an increasing degree, the supreme gift of unquestioning obedience.

When Amy came breathlessly back, she found Constance in her bedroom, withdrawing crumpled balls of paper from the sleeves of her second-best mantle.  Constance scarcely ever wore this mantle.  In theory it was destined for chapel on wet Sundays; in practice it had remained long in the wardrobe, Sundays having been obstinately fine for weeks and weeks together.  It was a mantle that Constance had never really liked.