"Not much yet; thought I just drop in and look you up, dear," replied the man, tossing his hat and gloves on to the sofa and making himself comfortable. "You don't seem overjoyed to see me though."
"No, I am not. Can you expect me to be? I thought you had passed out of my life for ever. How did you find me out here?"
"Shorty! There you have it. I looked in at the old shop where Mother M. still hangs out, and sure enough there the rascal was."
"And how did Shorty know?"
"Ah, that's more than I can tell you. You'd better ask him if you're curious on the point. For some reason of his own—and you may bet your bottom dollar it's a good one—he seems to have been keeping his wicked eye on you and your husband ever since you joined forces. It was Shorty told me you were married." He looked round the little room with a sneer which well became his Mephistophelian countenance. "But I say, Miriam, I should have thought you might have done a bit better than this! West Kensington, and cheap at that, isn't it?"
"I must ask you if you have anything of importance to say, Jabez, to say it and go. My husband will be home directly. He must not find you here."
"And why not, pray? You can introduce me as your old friend, Harry Maxwell—that's my name now. Thank the Lord Jabez is dead and buried for ever."
"You think so?" said Miriam, with a searching look and dropping her voice. "I should not advise you to be too sure about that. There is always the possibility of his being dug up, and then all the fine clothes in the world won't disguise him."
The man drew his hand across his throat with a significant expression.
"Not much fear of that," he replied, "especially with this beard. I flatter myself it's rather a neat growth." He stroked his chin complacently.