it impossible to read the
name of the street upon the corner house, turned back.

"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy."

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me
my way to Bloomsbury Square."

"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round
the corner is. What number might you be wanting?"

The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned
overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs.
Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight."

"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. Been
recommended there?"

"By--by a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much."

"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling him
that by the end of the week, young--"

"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the
stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old
in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll
look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry's: stingy old
cat."

Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for
not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to
discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured
lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the
neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of
generosity and amiability.

Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of
Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching
a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate
masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the
looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he
prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the
gas.

"And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer
questions. Say I'll be up in a minute," were Mrs. Pennycherry's further
instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as much as you can."

***

"What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of
minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane.

"Wasn't grinning," explained the meek Mary Jane, "was only smiling to
myself."

"What at?"

"Dunno," admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling.

"What's he like then?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry.

"'E ain't the usual sort,"