"Take us into your sitting-room," said Hardy; and they entered the door and were in the sitting-room at once—a cosy little room, hung with portraits of Bax and his dead wife and daughter, decorated with a small mantel-glass in fly-gauze, and hospitable with a round table on one leg and three claws, the top beautified by a knitted cover.
Julia sank into a little armchair. Bax was beginning to gaze at her earnestly; he knew her perfectly well, knew her father also, who frequently looked in for a drink; also he knew Hardy perfectly well, likewise his father, who attended him when he was attacked by gout.
"Mr. Bax," said Hardy, putting his cap down upon the table, "we have come to occupy your house this night."
"Joost been married, have yer?" asked Bax, slipping his pipe into his waistcoat pocket.
"No," answered Hardy, gravely; "Miss Armstrong is leaving her home for good. If you don't guess why, I'll tell you presently."
Bax looked knowing; he looked more knowing an instant later when a fine Persian kitten ran up his back and curled its tail upon his shoulder, for then two pairs of eyes were fastened upon Hardy, the kitten, being no beer drinker, gazing more steadfastly than the other.
"Have you a bedroom that you can place at Miss Armstrong's disposal?"
"Is there no later train?" asked Julia.
"We would not take it if there were," replied Hardy.