"

"Oh, _we're_ all right; but all the better for seein' you. That's
understood."

"W'ich I looks towards yer, and I likewise bows," said Tilda graciously.
"But what's the matter?" she asked, glancing from one to the other.
"A stranger might say as you wasn' the best o' friends."

"Nothin'," answered Sam after a slight pause. "Bit of a argymint--
that's all."

"Wot about?"

"'Tisn worth mentionin'." Sam glanced at the other two. "The theayter
'ere's offered Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer an engagement."

"Well?"

"We was discussin' whether they ought to take it."

"W'y not?"

"Well, you see--Glasson bein' about--"

"After them too, is 'e? Don't mean ter say _they've_ been an' lost
their fathers an' mothers? No? Then I don't see."

"Them 'avin' contracted to look after you--"

He paused here, as Tilda, fixing him with a compassionate stare, began
to shake her head slowly.

"You don't deserve it--you reelly don't," she said, more in sorrow than
in anger; then with a sharp change of tone, "And you three 'ave been
allowin', I s'pose, that our best chance to escape notice is travellin'
around with a fur coat an' a sixty-foot Theayter Royal? . . . W'y, wot
was it put Glasson on our tracks? . . . Oh, I'm not blamin' yer!
Some folks--most folks, I'm comin' to think--just can't 'elp
theirselves. But it's saddenin'."

"0' course," suggested Sam, "I might take on the job single-'anded.
My orders don't go beyond this place; but the beer'll wait, and 'Ucks
per'aps won't mind my takin' a 'oliday--not if I explain."

Tilda regarded him for a while before answering. When at length she
spoke, it was with a fine, if weary, patience--"Got pen-an'-ink, any of
yer?"

Mrs. Mortimer arose, stepped to a bundle of shawls lying in a Windsor
chair, unwrapped a portable writing-case which appeared to be the kernel
of the bundle, and laid it on the table--all this with extreme docility.

"I'll trouble you to do the writin'," said Tilda, laying a sheet of
paper before Sam after she had chosen a pen and unsnapped the ink-case.

"Why not Mortimer?" he protested feebly.

"I wouldn' make Arguin' a 'abit, if I was you."

Sam collapsed and took the pen from her, after eyeing the palms of his
hands as though he had a mind to spit on them.

"Now write," she commanded, and began to dictate slowly.

She had taken command of the room. The Mortimers could only stand by
and listen, as helpless as Arthur Miles. She spoke deliberate