captain off
with a twinkle in her bright eyes. The little old lady was one of those
loved by the gods, for she would undoubtedly die young in heart.

Still, as she walked with Captain Pendle to the station in the gathering
darkness, she looked worried and white. George could not see her face in
the dusk, and moreover was too much taken up with his late charming
interview to notice his companion's preoccupation. In spite of her
sympathy, Miss Whichello grew weary of a monologue on the part of
George, in which the name of 'Mab' occurred fifty times and more. She
was glad when the train steamed off with this too happy lover, and
promised to deliver all kinds of unnecessary messages to the girl George
had left behind him.

'But let them be happy while they can,' murmured Miss Whichello, as she
tripped back through the town. 'Poor souls, if they only knew what I
know.'

As Miss Whichello had the meaning of this enigmatic speech in her mind,
she did not think it was necessary to put it into words, but, silent and
pensive, walked along the crowded pavement. Shortly she turned down a
side street which led to the police-station, and there paused in a quiet
corner to pin a veil round her head--a veil so thick that her features
could hardly be distinguished through it. The poor lady adopted this as
a kind of disguise, forgetting that her old-fashioned poke bonnet and
quaint silk cloak were as well known to the inhabitants of Beorminster
as the cathedral itself. That early century garb was as familiar to the
rascality of the slums as to the richer citizens; even the police knew
it well, for they had often seen its charitable wearer by the bedsides
of dying paupers. It thus happened that, when Miss Whichello presented
herself at the police-station to Inspector Tinkler, he knew her at once,
in spite of her foolish little veil. Moreover, in greeting her he
pronounced her name.

'Hush, hush, Mr Inspector,' whispered Miss Whichello, with a mysterious
glance around. 'I do not wish it to be known that I called here.'

'You can depend upon my discretion, Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the
inspector, who was a bluff and tyrannical ex-sergeant. 'And what can I
do for you?'

Miss Whichello looked round again. 'I wish, Mr Inspector,' said she, in
a very small voice, 'to be taken by you to the dead-house.'

'To the dead-house, Miss Whichello, ma'am!' said the iron Tinkler,
hardly able to conceal his astonishment, although it was against h