long with
a slight swaying of the body from side to side.

"Well?" she interrogated.

"'E's sort of engaged, mum," temporised Bindle, "'avin' breakfast.
I'll tell 'im you're 'ere. I'll break it gently to 'im. You know, mum,
joy sometimes kills, an' 'e don't look strong."

Without a word Mrs. Stiffson wheeled round and, ignoring the lift,
marched for the stairs. As he followed, Bindle remembered with
satisfaction that he had omitted to close the outer door of Number
Six.

Straight up the stairs, like "never-ending Time," marched Mrs.
Stiffson. She did not hurry, she did not pause, she climbed evenly,
mechanically, a model wife seeking her mate.

Any doubts that Bindle may have had as to Mrs. Stiffson's ability to
find the husband she sought were set at rest by the shrill pipings of
Oscar. Even a trained detective could not have overlooked so obvious a
clue.

Along the corridor, straight for Number Six moved Mrs. Stiffson,
Bindle in close attendance, fearful lest he should lose the dramatic
intensity of the arrival of "the wronged wife."

Unconscious that Nemesis was marching upon him, Mr. Stiffson,
stimulated by the coffee, bacon and eggs, and the gay insouciance of
Cissie Boye, was finding the situation losing much of its terror for
him.

No man for long could remain indifferent to the charming personality
of Cissie Boye. Her bright chatter and good looks, her innocence,
strangely blended with worldly wisdom, her daring garb; all combined
to divert Mr. Stiffson's mind from the thoughts of his wife, apart
from which the clock pointed to five minutes past nine, and Mrs.
Stiffson was as punctual as fate.

Had he possessed the intuition of a mongoose, Mr. Stiffson would have
known that there was a snake in his grass.

Instinct guiding her steps, Mrs. Stiffson entered the flat. Instead of
turning to the right, in the direction of the bedroom in which Oscar
was overdoing the thanksgiving business for bird-seed and water, she
wheeled to the left and threw open the sitting-room door.

From under Mrs. Stiffson's right arm Bindle saw the tableau. Mr.
Stiffson, who was facing the door, was in the act of raising his
coffee-cup to smiling lips. Cissie Boye, sitting at right angles on
his left, was leaning back in her chair clapping her hands.

"Oh, you naughty old thing!" she was crying.

At the sight of his wife, Mr. Stiffson's jaw dropped and the
coffee-cup slipped from his nerveless hands. It struck the edge of