the house, and made his
way in without ceremony. At a table in the little parlour sat the clerk's
wife, presiding at a solitary tea-table by the light of a candle.

"How are you, Mrs. Gum?"

She had not heard him enter, and started at the salutation. Lord
Hartledon laughed.

"Don't take me for a housebreaker. Your front-door was open, and I came
in without knocking. Is your husband at home?"

What with shaking and curtseying, Mrs. Gum could scarcely answer. It was
surprising how a little shock of this sort, or indeed of any sort, would
upset her. Gum was away on some business or other, she replied--which
caused their tea-hour to be delayed--but she expected him in every
moment. Would his lordship please to wait in the best parlour, she asked,
taking the candle to marshal him into the state sitting-room.

No; his lordship would not go into the best parlour; he would wait two or
three minutes where he was, provided she did not disturb herself, and
went on with her tea.

Mrs. Gum dusted a large old-fashioned oak chair with her apron; but he
perched himself on one of its elbows.

"And now go on with your tea, Mrs. Gum, and I'll look on with all the
envy of a thirsty man."

Mrs. Gum glanced up tremblingly. Might she dare offer his lordship a cup?
She wouldn't make so bold but tea _was_ refreshing to a parched throat.

"And mine's always parched," he returned. "I'll drink some with you, and
thank you for it. It won't be the first time, will it?"

"Always parched!" remarked Mrs. Gum. "Maybe you've a touch of fever, my
lord. Many folk get it at the close of summer."

Lord Hartledon sat on, and drank his tea. He said well that he was always
thirsty, though Mrs. Gum's expression was the better one. That timid
matron, overcome by the honour accorded her, sat on the edge of her
chair, cup in hand.

"I want to ask your husband if he can give me a description of the man
who was concerned in that wretched mutiny on board the _Morning Star_,"
said Lord Hartledon, somewhat abruptly. "I mean the ringleader, Gordon.
Why--What's the matter?"

Mrs. Gum had jumped up from her chair and began looking about the room.
The cat, or something else, had "rubbed against her legs."

No cat could be found, and she sat down again, her teeth chattering. Lord
Hartledon came to the conclusion that she was only fit for a lunatic
asylum. Why did she keep a cat, if its fancied caresses were to terrify
her like that?

"It was said, you know