"Well, sir," said Philip, knitting his brows, "it was like this. No woman is ever—was ever—allowed into our house, because—because of what Uncle Joseph thinks—thought—about them. Yesterday a lady called when he was out, and got in."
"Who let her in?" enquired the accusing voice of Mr. Mablethorpe.
"I'm afraid I did, sir," replied Philip apologetically.
"I am not in the least surprised to hear it," said Mr. Mablethorpe. "What was she like?"
"She was all in black, and she sat and talked to me for a long time, and told me she had lost her little girl. Then Uncle Joseph came in, and—and—and they seemed to know each other quite well, sir."
Mr. Mablethorpe deliberately switched off his engine and slowed down to a stop at the roadside.
"Now we can talk without shouting," he said. "I scent copy. This is a real live Romance. Continue. How well did Uncle Joseph and the Beautiful Lady appear to know one another?"
"Pretty well," faltered Philip, with boylike reserve.
Mr. Mablethorpe, who had once been a boy himself,—there were some who said that he had never grown up,—nodded understandingly.
"And what happened after that?" he asked.