[Illustration: "Mr. Catesby made a few inquiries."]
"I don't know 'im," said the landlord.
"I had an idea that he lived at No. 5," said Catesby.
The landlord shook his head. "That's Mrs. Truefitt's house," he said,
slowly.
Mr. Catesby pondered. "Truefitt, Truefitt," he repeated; "what sort of a
woman is she?"
"Widder-woman," said the landlord; "she lives there with 'er daughter
Prudence."
Mr. Catesby said "Indeed!" and being a good listener learned that Mrs.
Truefitt was the widow of a master-lighterman, and that her son, Fred
Truefitt, after an absence of seven years in New Zealand, was now on his
way home. He finished his glass slowly and, the landlord departing to
attend to another customer, made his way into the street again.
He walked along slowly, picturing as he went the home-corning of the
long-absent son. Things were oddly ordered in this world, and Fred
Truefitt would probably think nothing of his brotherly privileges. He
wondered whether he was like Prudence. He wondered----
"By Jove, I'll do it!" he said, recklessly, as he turned. "Now for a
row."
He walked back rapidly to Bashford's Lane, and without giving his courage
time to cool plied the knocker of No. 5 briskly.
The door was opened by an elderly woman, thin, and somewhat querulous in
expression. Mr. Catesby had just time to notice this, and then he flung
his arm round her waist, and hailing her as "Mother!" saluted her warmly.
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