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To-day he returned as usual, sighing a little as he entered the square.

What a troublesome baby that was! What a nuisance it would be to move! He doubted very much if the people opposite knew how to cook steak. He let himself into the house with his latchkey, hung up his coat and hat in the hall–he was a most methodical old gentleman–and turned into his parlour. He expected the usual scene to meet his eyes, the fire burning brightly, a snowy cloth on the table, and Martha in the act of placing an appetising covered dish on the board. This homely and domestic scene, however, was not destined to meet him to-day. The fire in the grate was out, there were no preparations for lunch on the table, and taking up the greater part of the light from one of the windows might have been seen the portly form of Mrs Potts.

Mrs Potts was the drawing-room lodger, and Mr Martin both dreaded and detested her. He shrank back a step or two. What was she doing in his room? The absence of lunch was bad enough, but this unexpected and undesired company was insult on injury.

Mr Martin bowed, cleared his throat, and prepared to make an elaborate speech. Mrs Potts interrupted him fiercely.

‘My good sir, this is no time for ceremony–the wailing infant up-stairs and the two children of the house have been stolen since the morning. Mrs Franklin is almost out of her mind with grief, and suspicion points to you.’

‘Good gracious, madam, what do you mean?’ said poor Mr Martin in a limp voice. He sank down on the nearest chair, spreading out his hands on his knees. ‘What do you mean?’ he continued. ‘The children stolen! Who stole them?’

‘Perhaps you can answer that question. Who was it made such an indecent fuss this morning because a poor fatherless and motherless babe cried? Who threatened to leave if that same poor babe wasn’t sent to the workhouse? Answer me that, Mr Martin, and then tell me if you know nothing of the fate of the hapless innocents.’

Mr Martin looked cautiously round at the door, which was slightly ajar. He got up softly and shut it. Then he advanced gently across the room and came up close to Mrs Potts.

‘Answer me this,’ he said. ‘Did you like it, yourself?’

‘Did I like what? Good gracious, the man frightens me.’

‘Did you like the wailing sounds of the fatherless and motherless baby? You were nearer to it than I was. If you heard it last night, and felt all the pity you now express, you had a good opportunity of putting it to the test by going up-stairs and lulling the unfortunate babe to rest. A woman’s mission, too, I have always understood.’

Mrs Potts turned scarlet.

‘I! I do what you describe!’ she said. ‘You forget yourself, Mr Martin.’

‘I fail to see that I do, Mrs Potts. It strikes me that it is rather the other way. Perhaps you will do me the kindness to let me have my room in peace.’

Mrs Potts made a sweeping curtsey and vanished, and Mr Martin stood for some time in his deserted parlour feeling far more uncomfortable than he liked to confess. He was methodical and fussy, but he was by no means an ill-natured man. He thought Mrs Potts most impertinent, but her news distressed him. After reflecting for a few moments, he went across to the fireplace, and pulled his bell sharply. After a short pause the kitchen slavey answered his summons: her eyes were red with weeping, and her nose very smutty. Mr Martin hated dirty servants. He turned his back to her as he spoke.

‘Jane, is your mistress in?’