ever had quite
understood what those letters meant. 'Those two P's in the two bottom
corners tell me that that stamp wasn't printed before '74. It was all
explained to me not long ago. Now the postmark is dated '73.' There was
an air of triumph about Bagwax as he said this which almost drove
Curlydown back to hostility. But he checked himself merely shaking his
head, and continued to look at the stamp. 'What do you think of that?'
asked Bagwax.

'You'd have to prove it.'

'Of course I should. But the stamps are made here and are sent out to
the colony. I shall see Smithers at the stamp-office on Monday of
course.' Mr. Smithers was a gentleman concerned in the manufacture of
stamps. 'But I know my facts. I am as well aware of the meaning of those
letters as though I had made postage-stamps my own peculiar duty. Now
what ought I to do?'

'You wouldn't have to go, I suppose?'

'Not a foot.'

'And yet it ought to be found out how that date got there.' And
Curlydown put his finger upon the impression--10th May, 1873.

'Not a doubt about it. I should do a deal of good by going if they'd
give me proper authority to overhaul everything in the office out there.
They had the letter stamped fraudulently;--fraudulently, Mr. Curlydown!
Perhaps if I stayed at home to give evidence, they'd send you to Sydney
to find all that out.'

There was a courtesy in this suggestion which induced Curlydown to ask
his junior to come down and take pot-luck at Apricot Villa. Bagwax was
delighted, for his heart had been sore at the coolness which had grown
up between him and the man under whose wing he had worked for so many
years. He had been devoted to Curlydown till growing ambition had taught
him to think himself able to strike out a line for himself. Mr.
Curlydown had two daughters, of whom the younger, Jemima, had found much
favour in the eyes of Bagwax. But since the jealousy had sprung up
between the two men he had never seen Jemima, nor tasted the fruits of
Curlydown's garden. Mrs. Curlydown, who approved of Bagwax, had been
angry, and Jemima herself had become sullen and unloving to her father.
On that very morning Mrs. Curlydown had declared that she hated quarrels
like poison. 'So do I, mamma,' said Jemima, breaking her silence
emphatically. 'Not that Mr. Bagwax is anything to anybody.'

'That does look like something,' said Curlydown, whispering to his
friend in the railway carriage. They were sitting opposite to each
other, w