t of that he had left the lid loose and walked so quickly
that he spilled milk on the pavement. This showed that he was not
thinking of his small burden, and this again showed that he anticipated
some other than lacteal business at the end of his walk, and this (taken
in conjunction with something about muddy boots) showed something else
that I have entirely forgotten. I am afraid that I derided this detailed
revelation unmercifully; and I am afraid that Rupert Grant, who,
though the best of fellows, had a good deal of the sensitiveness of the
artistic temperament, slightly resented my derision. He endeavoured to
take a whiff of his cigar, with the placidity which he associated with
his profession, but the cigar, I think, was nearly bitten through.

"My dear fellow," he said acidly, "I'll bet you half a crown that
wherever that milkman comes to a real stop I'll find out something
curious."

"My resources are equal to that risk," I said, laughing. "Done."

We walked on for about a quarter of an hour in silence in the trail of
the mysterious milkman. He walked quicker and quicker, and we had some
ado to keep up with him; and every now and then he left a splash of
milk, silver in the lamplight. Suddenly, almost before we could note it,
he disappeared down the area steps of a house. I believe Rupert really
believed that the milkman was a fairy; for a second he seemed to accept
him as having vanished. Then calling something to me which somehow took
no hold on my mind, he darted after the mystic milkman, and disappeared
himself into the area.

I waited for at least five minutes, leaning against a lamp-post in the
lonely street. Then the milkman came swinging up the steps without his
can and hurried off clattering down the road. Two or three minutes more
elapsed, and then Rupert came bounding up also, his face pale but yet
laughing; a not uncommon contradiction in him, denoting excitement.

"My friend," he said, rubbing his hands, "so much for all your
scepticism. So much for your philistine ignorance of the possibilities
of a romantic city. Two and sixpence, my boy, is the form in which your
prosaic good nature will have to express itself."

"What?" I said incredulously, "do you mean to say that you really did
find anything the matter with the poor milkman?"

His face fell.

"Oh, the milkman," he said, with a miserable affectation at having
misunderstood me. "No, I--I--didn't exactly bring anything home to the
milkma