when the exigencies of a story require that two parts of it should be related at once, the difficulty is, which to take first; or rather which may be delayed with the least inconvenience: and very often, as is the case with other things in life we choose the wrong.

mrs. jones sat in her parlour at the twilight hour and a very dark twilight, too, but light enough for the employment she was so busy over--knitting. not woollen socks this time, but some complicated affair of silk, more profitable than the stockings. roland yorke had just started on that visit, already told of, to gerald's chambers, after enjoying a sumptuous tea and toasted muffin in mrs. jones's parlour, where, for the sake of company, his meals were sometimes taken. miss rye was out at work; mr. ollivera had an evening service; and so the house was quiet, and mrs. jones at leisure to pursue her occupation.

not for very long. a double knock at the street door gave forth its echoes, and the servant-maid came in, after answering it.

"a gentleman wants to know if there's not a room to let here, ma'am."

mrs. jones looked up as if she meant to snap the girl's nose off. "how should he know any room's to let? there's no bill up."

"i've asked him into mr. yorke's parlour," said the girl, aware that it was worse than profitless to contend with her mistress. "he has got spectacles on, and he says his name's mr. brown."

mrs. jones shook out her gown and went to the visitor: a tall gentleman with those slightly-stained glasses on that are called smoke coloured. he generally took them off indoors, wearing them in the street to protect his eyes from the sun, but on this occasion he kept them on. it was the mr. brown who belonged to the house of greatorex and greatorex; mrs. jones had heard his name, but did not know him personally and he had to introduce himself as well as his business.

mr. roland yorke, in his confidential communications to josiah hurst and the office generally, touching other people's concerns as well as his own--for gossiping, as an agreeable interlude to his hard work, still held its sway over roland--had told of the departure of the scripture reader for another district, and the vacancy, in consequence, in mrs. jones's household. mr. brown, listening to all this, but saying nothing, had come to the conclusion that the room might suit himself; hence his visit tonight. he related these particulars quite candidly, and asked to see the room if it were not already let. he should give very little trouble, he said, took nothing at home but his breakfast and tea, and had his boots cleaned out of doors.

mrs. jones marshalled him to the room: the back-parlour, as the reader may remember: and the bargain was concluded at once, without a dissentient voice on the stranger's part. mrs. jones remembered afterwards that when she held the candle aloft for him to see its proportions and furniture, he scarcely gave a single glance before saying it would do, and laid the first week's rent down in lieu of references.

"who asked for references?" tartly demanded mrs. jones, not a whit more courteous to him, her lodger in prospective, than she was to others. "time enough to speak of references when you're told they're wanted. little jenner has often talked of you. take up the money, if you please."

"but i prefer to pay my rent in advance," said mr. brown. "it has been my custom to do so where i am."

he spoke decisively, in a tone that admitted of no appeal, and mrs. jones caught up the money with a jerk and put it loose in her pocket. saying he would let her know the time of his entrance, which might probably be on the following evening, he wished her goodnight, and departed: leaving an impression on his future landlady that his voice was in some way not altogether unfamiliar to her.

"i'm not as 'cute in remembering faces as alletha is," acknowledged mrs. jones to herself, while she watched him down the street from the front door, "but i'll back my ears against hers for voices any day. not lately; i hardly think that; it's more like a remembrance of the far past. still i don't remember his face. heard him speak perhaps in some railway train; or----goodness heart alive! is it you?"

this sudden break was occasioned by the appearance of another gentleman, who seemed to have sprung from nowhere, until he halted close before her. it was the detective officer, butterby: and mrs. jones had not seen him since she quitted her country home.

"i thought it looked like you," cried mr. butterby, giving his hand. "says i to myself, as i strolled along, 'if that's not the exact image of my old friend, mrs. jones, it's uncommon like her. it is you, ma'am! and how are you? so you are living in this quarter!"

crafty man! mrs. jones had assuredly dealt him a box on the ear could she have divined that he was deceiving her. he had been watching her house for some minutes past, knowing just as well as she did that it was hers. mrs. jones invited him indoors, and he went under protest, not wishing, he said, to intrude: but the going indoors was what he intended doing all along.

they sat gossiping of old times and new. mr. butterby took a friendly glass of beer and a biscuit; mrs. jones, knitting always, took none. without seeming to be at all anxious for the information, he had speedily gathered in every particular about roland yorke that there was to gather. not too charitably disposed to the world in general, in speech at any rate, mrs. jones yet spoke well of roland.

"he is no more like the proud, selfish aristocrat he used to be than chalk's like cheese," she said. "in his younger days roland yorke thought the world was made for him and his pleasure, no matter who else suffered: he doesn't think it now."

"sowed his wild oats, has he?" remarked mr. butterby.

"for the matter of wild oats, i never knew he had any particular ones to sow," retorted mrs. jones. "whether or not, he has got none left, that i can see."

"wouldn't help himself to another twenty-pound note," said mr. butterby carelessly, stretching out his hand to take a second biscuit.

"no, that he would not," emphatically pronounced mrs. jones. "and i know this--that there never was an act repented of as he repents of that. his thoughts are but skin-deep; he's not crafty enough to hide them, and those that run may read. if cutting off his right hand would undo that past act, he'd cut it off and be glad, mr. butterby."

"shouldn't wonder," assented the officer. "many folks is in the like case. have you ever come across that godfrey pitman?"

"not i. have you?"

the officer shook his head. godfrey pitman had hitherto remained a dead failure.

"the man was disguised when he was at your house at helstonleigh, mrs. jones, there's no doubt of that; and the fact has made detection difficult, you see."

the assumption as reflecting disparagement on her and her house, mortally offended mrs. jones. she treated mr. butterby to a taste of the old tongue he so well remembered, and saw him with the barest civility to the door on his departure. miss rye happened to be coming in at the time, and mr. butterby regarded her curiously with his green eyes in saluting her. her face and lips turned white as ashes.

"what brings him here? she asked under her breath, when mrs. jones came back to her parlour from shutting the door.

"his pleasure, i suppose," was mrs. jones's answer, a great deal too much put out to say that he had come (as she supposed) accidentally. disguised men lodging in her house, indeed! "what's the matter with you?"

alletha rye had sat down on the nearest chair, and seemed labouring to get her breath. the ghastly face, the signs of agitation altogether, attracted the notice of mrs. jones.

"i have got that stitch in my side again; i walked fast," was all she said.

mrs. jones caught up her knitting.

"did butterby want anything in particular?" presently asked miss rye.

"no, he did not. he is in london about some business or other, and saw me standing at the door this evening as he passed by. have you got your work finished?"

"yes," replied alletha, beginning to unfasten her mantle and bonnet-strings.

"i've let the back-parlour," remarked mrs. jones; "so if there's any of your pieces in the room, the sooner you fetch them out the better. brown, the managing clerk to mr. bede greatorex, has taken it."

"who?" cried alletha, springing out of her seat.

"it's a good thing there's no nerves in this house; you'd startle them," snapped mrs. jones. "what ails you tonight?"

alletha rye turned her back, apparently searching for something in the sideboard drawer. her face was growing paler, if possible, than before; her fingers shook; the terror in her eyes was all too conspicuous. she was silently striving for composure, and hiding herself while she did so. when it had in a degree come she faced mrs. jones again, who was knitting furiously, and spoke in a quiet tone.

"who did you say had taken the room, julia? mr. brown? why should he take it?"

"you can go and ask him why."

"i would not let it to him," said alletha, earnestly. "don't; pray don't."

down went the knitting with a fling. "now just you explain yourself, alletha rye. what has the man done to you, that you should put in your word against his coming in?"

"nothing."

"oh! then why should he not come pray? his worst enemy can't say he's not respectable--after being for years confidential clerk to greatorex and greatorex. do you hear?--what have you to urge against his coming?"

alletha rye was at a loss for an answer. the real reason she dared not give; and it was difficult to invent one. but the taxed brain is wonderfully apt.

"it may not be agreeable to mr. yorke."

mrs. jones was never nearer going into a real passion: and, in spite of her sharp tongue, passion with her was exceedingly rare. she gave alletha what she called a taste of her mind and it was rather a bitter one while it lasted. mrs. jones did not drop it easily, and it was she who broke the ensuing silence.

"don't bring up mr. yorke's name under any of your false pretences, alletha rye. you have taken some crotchet in your head against the man, though i don't know how or when you can have seen him, just as you did against parson ollivera. anyway, i have accepted brown as tenant, and he comes into possession tomorrow night."

"then i may as well move my work out at once," said alletha, meekly, taking up a candle.

she went into the back parlour, and caught hold of an upright piece of furniture, and pressed her aching head upon it as if it were a refuge. the candle remained on the chest of drawers; the work, lying about, was ungathered but she stood on, moaning out words of distress and despair.

"it is the hand of fate. it is bringing all things and people together in one nucleus; just has it has been working to do ever since the death of john ollivera."

but the events of the evening were not entirely over, and a word or two must be yet given to it. there seemed to be nothing but encounters and re-encounters. as mr. butterby was walking down the street on his departure, turning his eyes (not his head) from side to side in the quiet manner characteristic of him observing all, but apparently seeing nothing, though he had no object in view just now, there came up a wayfarer to jostle him; a tall, strong young man, who walked as if the street were made for him, and nearly walked over quiet mr. butterby.

"halloa!" cried roland, for it was nobody else. "it's you, is it! what do you do up here?"

roland's tone was none of the pleasantest, savouring rather of the haughty assumption of old days. his interview with gerald, from which he was hastening, had not tended to appease him, and mr. butterby was as much his bête noire as he had ever been. the officer did not like the tone: he was a greater man than he used to be, having got up some steps in the official world.

"looking after you, perhaps," retorted mr. butterby. "the streets are free for me, i suppose."

"it would not be the first time you had looked after the wrong man. how many innocent people have you taken into custody lately?"

"now you just keep a civil tongue in your month, mr. roland yorke. you'd not like it if i took you."

"i should like it as well as arthur channing liked it when you took him," said bold roland. "there's been a grudge lying on my mind against you ever since that transaction, butterby, and i promise you i'll pay it off if i get the chance."

"did you make free with that cheque yesterday, mr. yorke--as you did by the other money?" asked mr. butterby, slightly exasperated.

"perhaps i did and perhaps i didn't," said roland. "think so, if you like. you are no better than a calf in these matters, you know, butterby. poor meek jenkins, who was too good to stop in the same atmosphere that other folks breathed, was clearer-sighted than you. 'it's arthur channing, your worships, and i've took him prisoner to answer for it,' says you to the magistrates. 'it never was arthur channing,' says jenkins, nearly going down on his knees to you in his honest truth. 'pooh, pooh,' says you, virtuously indignant, 'i know a thief when i see him----'"

"now i vow, mr. roland yorke----"

"don't interrupt your betters butterby; wait till i've done," cried aggravating roland, over-bearing the quieter voice. "you took up arthur channing, and moved heaven and earth to get him convicted. had the wise king, solomon, come express down from the stars on a frosty night, to tell you arthur was innocent, you'd have pooh-poohed him as you did poor jenkins. but it turned out not to be arthur, you know, old butterby; it was me. and now if you think you'd like to go in for the same mistake again, go in for it. you would, if you took me up for this second thing."

"i can tell you what, mr. roland yorke--you'd look rather foolish if i walked into mr. greatorex's office tomorrow morning, and told him of that past mistake."

"i don't much care whether you do or don't," said candid roland. "as good let it come out as not, for somebody or other is always casting it in my teeth. hurst does; my brother gerald does--i've come now straight from hearing it. i thought i should have lived that down at port natal; but it seems i didn't."

"you'll not live it down by impudence," said mr. butterby.

"then i must live it up," was the retort, "for impudence is a fault of mine. i've heard you say i had enough for the devil. so good night to you, butterby. i am to be found at my lodgings, if you'd like to come after me there with a pair of handcuffs."

roland went striding off, and the officer stood to look after him. in spite of the "impudence" received, a smile crossed his face; it was the same impulsive, careless, boyish roland yorke of past days, good-natured under his worst sting. but whatever other impression might have been left upon mr. butterby's mind by the encounter, one lay very clear--that it was not roland who was guilty this time, and he must look elsewhere for the purloiner of the cheque.