eyes.

'Dick's not a millionaire, mother--though it seems he has been
supporting one--for a few minutes anyway. Well, Chrissy, how does
that make you feel?'

'You see, my dear,' said the little bookseller softly, addressing his
wife, 'if any harm had come to the boy, they would have reported it
for certain.'

They talked over the news while Jim ate his tea, and now and again
interrupted with his mouth full; talked over it and speculated upon
it in low, excited tones, which grew calmer by degrees. But still a
warm flush showed on the cheeks of both the women, and the little
bookseller found it necessary to take out his handkerchief at
intervals and wipe his round spectacles.

He was wiping them perhaps for the twentieth time, and announcing
that he must go and relieve his assistant in the shop, when the
assistant's voice was heard uplifted close outside--as it seemed, in
remonstrance with a customer.

'Hallo!' said the little bookseller, and was rising from his chair,
when the door opened. A middle-aged, Jewish-looking man, wrapped to
the chin in a shabby ulster and carrying a suit-case, stood on the
threshold, and regarded the little party.

'Mother!' cried Mr Markham. 'Chrissy!'

He set down the suit-case and took two eager strides. Old Mrs.
Rendal, the one immediately menaced, shrank back into Jim's arms as
he started up with his throat working to bolt a mouthful of cake.
Chrissy caught her breath.

'Who in thunder are you, sir?' demanded Jim.

'Get out of this, unless you want to be thrown out!'

'Chrissy!' again appealed Mr Markham, but in a fainter voice. He had
come to a standstill, and his hand went slowly up to his forehead.

Chrissy pointed to the suit-case. 'It's--it's Dick's!' she gasped.
Jim did not hear.

'Mr Wenham,' he said to the white-faced assistant in the doorway;
'will you step out, please, and fetch a policeman?'

'Excuse me.' Mr Markham took his hand slowly from his face, and
spread it behind him, groping as he stepped backwards to the door.
'I--I am not well, I think'--he spoke precisely, as though each word
as it came had to be held and gripped. 'The address'--here he turned
on Chrissy with a vague, apologetic smile--'faces--clear in my head.
Mistake--I really beg your pardon.'

'Get him some brandy, Jim,' said the little bookseller.
'The gentleman is ill, whoever he is.'

But Mr Markham turned without another word, and lurched past the
assistant, who flattened himsel