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climbed into her car as regally as she could at a moment’s notice and banged the door shut with a violence which rocked the vehicle. She clashed her gears badly as she moved away.

“Pointed, James; decidedly pointed,” Harley murmured as he continued on his path. “‘We have done those things which we ought not to have done.’ But, for a sinner, we are not unduly miserable, James. Whistle, you ass!”

He was whistling when he reached his gate, which he slammed behind him with an exuberant gesture. In little but the clothes he wore did he resemble the man who had shut it listlessly a few hours earlier. He was now vigorously alive. No signs of mental travail showed in his expression. His eyes sparkled, he walked upright, swinging his arms with the joy of living. His firmly-planted boots raised little explosions of dust as he marched around the house to the back door; and when Ginger miaowed hungrily at him and stood in his path he was filled with a vast sympathy for the animal. He lifted the cat in his arms—a liberty which Ginger resented.

“What’s the matter with the old man?” he asked, caressing the struggling animal. “Not afraid of me, surely? What do you say to a nice piece of meat? A piece of steak, or perhaps a fried chop?”

It was only when he had mentioned a ‘fried chop’ that he realised he could smell a frying mutton chop. Moreover, he could hear the chop frying.

He lifted his head and stared at the closed back door of the house in puzzled speculation. Ginger took advantage of his wandering attention to scramble from his arms and dart under the hedge.

“Somebody in the house, James,” muttered Harley. “Somebody cooking chops on our stove.”

He thought of tramps, he thought of compassionate friends, he thought of Grace!

Grace returned!

His exaltation crashed; and a moment of panic,