t, a civility which he was wont to bestow, if possible, upon
every one who came to the shop. Lingering for a moment, in the hope of
descrying another customer, he saw Miss Owen coming down the street. Tommy
knew about "Cobbler" Horn's secretary; but he had not, as yet, had a fair
view of the young lady. He had not even thought much about her, and he did
not suspect that it was she who was now coming along the street, until she
passed into the old house. But, as he saw her now, with her black hair and
dark glowing face, walking along the pavement in her decided way, he felt,
as he afterwards said, "quite all-overish like." It was, at first, the
vaguest of impressions that he received. Then, as he gazed, he began to
think that he had seen that figure before--though he continued to assure
himself that he had not; and then, as Miss Owen drew nearer, he concluded
that there must be some one of whom she reminded him--some one whom he had
known long ago. Then, with a flash, came back to him the scene--never to
be forgotten--on that long-ago May morning; and Tommy Dudgeon heaved a
sigh, for he had obtained his clue.

"What a rude little man!" thought Miss Owen. "And yet he looks harmless
enough. Why he must be one of the little twin shopkeepers of whom I have
heard Mr. Horn speak. That will account for his interest in me."

The absorption of the young secretary in the duties of her office, during
her stay in the old house, no doubt fully accounted for the fact that she
had not become more familiar with the appearance of Tommy Dudgeon.

By this time Tommy had withdrawn into his shop. But he continued to watch.
Standing partly concealed behind some of the merchandise displayed in the
shop window, he saw Miss Owen enter "Cobbler" Horn's former abode, and
then waited for her once more to emerge.

In ten minutes the young secretary again appeared. Pausing on the
door-step, she looked this way and that, and then, with emphatic tread,
stepped out in the very track of the little twinkling feet which Tommy had
watched in their last departure on that ill-fated spring morning so long
ago. The little man craned his neck to see the better through the window,
and then, unable to restrain himself, he hurried to the doorway of the
shop once more, and, with enlightened eyes, watched the figure of the girl
till it passed out of sight. Then he turned, and rushed into the kitchen
behind the shop. His brother was trying to put one of the twins to