then all at once they'll go and do
something you'd have taken your davy couldn't possibly happen. I'd have
sworn she was nothing but a skinflint and a lying old witch. And so she
maybe; the chances are there's some game going on that I can't see
through. Make inquiries? Why, so I have done, as far as I know how.
I've only been able to hit on one person who knows anything about the
matter, and he tells me it's true enough the girl was taken away about
three years ago, but he's no idea where she went to. Surely the old man
must be dead b now, though he _was_ tough. Well, the fact of the matter
is, I've got a good berth, and I'm a precious sight too lazy to go on
the private detective job. Here's this girl Clem, the finest bit of
flesh I've seen for a long time; I've more than half a mind to see if
she won't be fool enough to marry me. I'm not a bad-looking fellow,
that's the truth, and she may have taken a real liking to me. Seems to
me that I should have come in for a Comfortable thing in my old age; if
I haven't a daughter to provide for my needs, at all events I shall
have a wife who can be persuaded into doing so. When the old woman gets
out of the way I must have a little quiet talk with Clem.'

The opportunity he desired was not long in offering itself. Having made
an excellent breakfast, he dragged his chair up to the fender again,
and reached a pipe from the mantel-piece, where he had left it last
night. Tobacco he carried loose in his waistcoat pocket; it came forth
in the form of yellowish dust, intermingled with all sorts of alien
scraps. When he had lit his pipe, he poised the chair on its hind-legs,
clasped his hands over his bald crown, and continued his musing with an
air of amiable calm. Smoke curled up from the corner of his loose lips,
and occasionally, removing his pipe for an instant, he spat skilfully
between the bars of the grate. Assured of his comfort, Mrs. Peckover
said she must go and look after certain domestic duties. Her daughter
had begun to clean some vegetables that would be cooked for dinner.

'How old may you be, Clem?' Mr. Snowdon inquired genially, when they
had been alone together for a few minutes.

'What's that to you? Guess.'

'Why, let me see; you was not much more than a baby when I went away.
You'll be eighteen or nineteen, I suppose.'

'Yes, I'm nineteen--last sixth of February. Pity you come too late to
give me a birthday present, ain't it?'

'Ah! And who'd have thought y