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moist and eager. Life was rather a dull affair for her. She served a dwindling clientele of ladies with a preference for prewar fashions. The constant adaptation of late Edwardian styles to figures afflicted with an elderly spread was not an exhilarating occupation. There was a time when she had made baby clothes. The recollection warmed her, and she hastened to tell Mr Clayton all about it.
    â€œI used to go in and out, being a friend of Mrs Smith’s, as you might say, and the poor thing—well, Mr Clayton, if I was to tell you she couldn’t so much as hold a needle, I really shouldn’t be exaggerating—no, indeed I don’t think I should. Anything so helpless I never saw. She used just to sit and mope, and it would have done her good to have made some of the dear little baby’s things herself—now wouldn’t it, Mr Clayton? Of course I couldn’t complain, because it was money in my pocket, as you may say—or should have been.” She patted her curled front with modest pride. She kept it under a net, and it had once been auburn. “I made all the baby clothes—six of everything. And then, poor thing, she died, and there wasn’t anyone to settle my account. I’d quite a tiff with Mrs Smith about that, Mr Clayton, and I’m not saying anything behind her back that I didn’t say to her face, but wouldn’t you think she might have put in a word for me and my account when she was getting her own settled?”
    â€œDid Mrs Smith get her account settled?” said Miles quickly.
    Miss Collins bridled.
    â€œIndeed she did! And I said to her, ‘If I’d a friend that had an account and it only needed a word from me—’”
    â€œMiss Collins, who settled it?”
    Miss Collins tossed her head.
    â€œWell, it’s never been settled, Mr Clayton, not to this day.”
    â€œMrs Smith’s account,” said Miles. “Who settled that! You said it was settled.”
    â€œOh, the poor thing’s sister that came down and settled everything— most open-handed and generous, as you may say. Why, that worthless girl of Mrs Smith’s that used to run after young Bert Haynes, she got a present of a pound. And then to think that Mrs Smith shouldn’t so much as have mentioned my name!”
    Miles was staring at her.
    â€œA sister?” he said.
    â€œWhy, Mrs Macintyre’s sister—the poor thing that died.”
    â€œMiss Collins, are you sure?”
    He had reason to be astonished, for Marion Macintyre had been an only child. There was no sister who could have settled Mrs Smith’s account. There was no relative, of any degree, who could have done so. His information was that the runaway Mrs Macintyre had neither friend nor relative in England. She had left her husband and had buried herself amongst strangers. She had lived lonely and died alone. But when she was dead, a sister had come down and settled Mrs Smith’s account.…
    â€œOf course I’m sure,” said Miss Collins with a touch of offence.
    â€œDid she ever come to see Mrs Macintyre?”
    â€œI don’t think so. No, I’m sure she didn’t, Mr Clayton, for Mrs Smith used to say to me what a shame it was that no one ever came near her. And she didn’t get any letters either. People talked about it, Mr Clayton.”
    Miles was thinking. This sister —who was she? He said,
    â€œDid she pay for the funeral?”
    â€œShe paid for everything, and I’m sure—”
    â€œDid she come to the funeral?”
    â€œYes, Mr Clayton, she did—and stayed the night and paid up all the bills, so you can’t say there wouldn’t have been time to mention my account.”
    Miles perceived that he must bear with Miss Collins’ account.
    â€œVery hard lines,” he said. “Well she stayed the night. And then?”
    Miss Collins fluttered a little. Her twenty years’ grievance shook