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THROUGH his uncurtained window Mr. Evans could see the young lady in grey. She occupied the rooms immediately opposite his own and on the other side of the mews. Her uncle was a musher and drove a taxi which he and his brother George had purchased on the "never never" system. You pay £8o down and more than you can afford for the rest of your life. Her aunt was genteel and wore eyeglasses. They lived in a large suite of rooms which extended over two garages, in one of which the cab was cleaned: it never stayed there for any appreciable time. The uncle drove it by day, and another uncle, whose name was George, by night, or vice versa. The taxi-cab never complained about this perpetual motion because it was inarticulate.

Mr. Evans was not interested in the cab, or the uncle, who always seemed to have boils on his neck, or Uncle George, who was a thin, acidulated man who talked to himself all the time. Nor did he look twice at the aunt. But the niece in grey, with her black hair and her saucy way of putting her hand on her hip, and her shining silk stockings—this young woman was, and had been since she first nodded to him brightly and said "Morning," an object of profound speculation and delight. Sometimes she nursed a baby prettily. He discovered in subsequent conversations that it was her sister's.

Mr. Evans was not old. On the other hand, he was not young. And anyway, scholars have no age: they are youthful or ancient according to the measure of their erudition.

"I'll bet she wonders who I am," said Mr. Evans with a quiet, sad smile. Few people know me outside of the profession. I'll bet she says, 'I wonder who that lonely man is: he looks as if he's had a lot of trouble—an' what an interestin' face he's got, mother or auntie, as the case may be!' "

Thus Evans communed with himself before the mirror, not knowing at that time the exact relationship of the lady with the driver of cabs.

One evening he leaned over the balustrade of the landing outside his door. She came out, looked and nodded.

"Evening," she said. "It's a nice evening."

"Not so good as Palermo in the South of France, or dear old India," said Evans. "Give me Egyp' for nice evenin's an' a half-hour's row down the Nile Canal."

She looked at him awe-stricken, red lips parted, violet eyes wide open.

"Have you been there?" she asked.

"Lots of times," said Evans carelessly; "and China, which is the most highly populised country in the world. That's where we get china from an' Chinese lanterns."

She leaned over her landing too. There was twelve feet of space between them. Down below a dazed horse-keeper stopped work to listen.

"It must be wonderful going abroad."

Evans shrugged so violently that one of his brace buttons came off and fell with a musical tinkle on the cobble-stones below.

"You get used to it if you're a racehorse owner," he said. " I've won the Calcutta Cup once but gave away the ticket to a footman at my club—couldn't be bothered. The Melbourne Cup—that's a wonderful race! Down in Orstralia."

She drew a long, sighing breath; her eyes were bright. He had, he saw, assumed a new interest in her eyes. The glow of it made his flannel undershirt feel prickly.

"Fancy... you own race-horses! Do they ever win?"

Evans smiled tiredly.

"Now and again. I don't like winnin' too often. The other members of the Jockey Club get that jealous there's no holdin' 'em."

"But how mean!"

Mr. Evans started to shrug again but remembered in time. Down below in the mews, the horse-keeper swooned against the wall.

"You can't please everybody," said Educated Evans. "Even Queen Elizabeth couldn't do that—that's why she got her napp—her head cut off by B—Mary the celebrated Queen of Scotch. That led to the Diet of Worms an' the rise an' fall of the far-famed Oliver Cromwell, fourteen hundred and seventy-six," he added.

She was stricken speechless for a moment, and Educated Evans proceeded.

"That brings us to the question of Astronomy. Very few people know that the eclipse of the sun is caused by the earth in its revolutions comin' between the moon an' the sun, thus causin' many ignorant people to think that the whole thing's wrong, when as a matter of fact it's an act of nature."

He was now speaking fluently, swinging his hat with the same easy carelessness as a sailor swings the lead. And when he dropped the hat into a puddle immediately below him, he just smiled. He was that much careless.

"Take the law," he said. "There's a good many people don't understand the law. Many a time I've stood up in court and said to the other lawyers—"

"Are you a lawyer too?"

Below the horse-keeper tried to say that Mr. Evans was less of a lawyer than a something liar, but his lips would not frame the words.

"Bit of everything," said Mr. Evans modestly. "Scientific—take sidlitz powders—"

The beautiful girl in grey was spared the need. Her aunt appeared in the open doorway, a mass of undigested knitting in her hands, and called her in.

"Come in, Clara, do!"

"Yes, auntie," said the girl meekly.

"What on earth do you want to talk to that old man for?" demanded the aunt, too audibly: the rest was undistinguishable.

Mr. Evans sneered at her. Old! What a nerve! Still, he had impressed her: he could see that. He went down the wooden steps, retrieved his hat and his button, and returned to the privacy of his "den" to dry the one and sew the other. She knew him now for what he was. An educated man. She was probably talking to her aunt about it at that moment, chiding her parent for her uncharity.

"No, auntie, you are wrong. I won't allow you to say that. He is not old—and what is age? One loves a man's mind; his breadth—his education."

That's what he imagined her saying.

What she actually said was:

"Who is that funny old geezer, aunt?"

"God knows," said her aunt, a pious woman. "I think he's something to do with dogs."

But Clara Develle was honestly and sincerely interested in Educated Evans and wondered about him. For example, she often wondered if he was right in his head. And she wondered who gave him his plaid trousers, and she wondered if he was a burglar, but decided that he was too tender on his feet for that nippy profession. And as her wonderment grew, there came to her a realisation that there really were possibilities about the educated man.

"Never mind about him," said her aunt sharply, when she approached the subject. "Your uncle Alf says things can't go on as they're going. You've got to find something to do. He can't keep you in idleness, because we're poor people, and if we wasn't we wouldn't."

Miss Clara said nothing.

"Your uncle's a man of the world—so is your uncle George," her aunt went on. "There's some things we don't know and don't want to know. Certain things have been remarked, but the least said soonest mended. Only it seems funny!"

Her niece was evidently in agreement with these cryptic sentiments, hints and innuendos, for she sighed sadly. Mr. Evans did not see her again that night, but he did notice, as he had noticed before, a young man going up the steps after dark.

Dark suspicions gathered in Mr. Evans' mind. Could this young man be a Fellow? Was he a Chap? The thing was preposterous... such a child... the aunt would never allow it. Not if she was a Good Woman...

Occasionally The Miller drifted down Bayham Mews. Generally it was a matter of duty which brought him to this place of silence, but sometimes he mounted the wooden steps that led to the habitation of one who was called, for excellent reason, Educated Evans, in search of social relaxation—for even a detective-sergeant has a human side to his character.

On this chilly night in March The Miller came up the steps and knocked at the door.

"Hullo, Mr. Challoner!" said Educated Evans graciously. "Kindly step inside and take the chair."

"Have you got a meeting, Evans?" asked The Miller good- humouredly.

"No—but I've only got one chair," said Evans.

He wore his overcoat, for the night was cold and the fire that burnt in the grate was so small as to be almost invisible. The Miller glanced at the table, where a paraffin lamp shed its rays upon a litter of paper.

"Just writing to a few of my clients, said Evans, rubbing his long nose. "They don't deserve it, but I've got to do it—Cold Feet for the Hurst Park Hurdle. He's been kept special for it. Not a yard at Lingfield—but this time his head's loose."

"Old Sam says—" began The Miller, but the look of pain, reproach, contempt and acid amusement in Evans' face cancelled his communique. Old Sam had been a propper of boozers, a holder of horses, an opener of cab doors. As lowly as a slave to Educated Evans, who had given him money and orders. And in the protracted absence of Mr. Evans in the country, Old Sam, traitor, ingrate and saturated beer-hound, had blossomed forth as a tipster.

"I'm sorry I mentioned your rival," said The Miller.

The pain in Mr. Evans' face grew more acute.

If The Miller had any reason for his call he did not state it. Evans was almost glad to see him go. Great was his fortune when later, slipping out to get a quick one, he met the grey girl at the end of the mews. He had an impression that she had just seen somebody off—a brief, blurred glimpse of a figure vanishing in the darkness. Should he speak to her or pass with a stately bow.

"Good-evening, Mr. Evans."

She knew his name.

"Good-evening, Miss—?"

"Miss Develle," she said. "Just been seeing a friend off," she went on. "Not exactly a friend, but a gentleman who is always running after me."

"What a cheek!" said Evans hotly. "I never heard such a thing in my life. It's proposterous!"

They lingered awhile. Her eyes shone hotly out of the dark; the dusk of night was in her hair. Evans grew agitated. It was within five minutes of closing time.

"I'd like to have a chat with you, Mr. Evans," she said earnestly. "You're such a Man of the World, or Gentleman of the World as one might say. I'll be going to the Rialto pictures at eight to-morrow night. Please don't mention it to auntie."

She was gone before he realised; her black hair and violet eyes were swallowed in the void. Educated Evans reeled to the nearest house of refreshment and drank heavily, for him.

They met in the ornate vestibule of the Rialto. Harold Lloyd favoured them with a celluloid smile as they slipped into the dark interior.

"... Yes, my aunt. My papa married beneath him—he was a Colonel in the army... that little baby's my sister Annie's.... Oh, I'm so glad to have a chat with you, Mr. Evans! I'm in such trouble. I must get some kind of work—I really must. It's hateful depending on relations or even relatives...."

She told him of her struggles; of the weary round she went from aunt to aunt—

"There's a cashier wanted at Lammer's. That's my work... if only I knew

somebody who knew somebody else who knew Mr. Lammer."

Honestly she was not aware that Mr. Lammer was an acquaintance of his. When he explained that he had only to crook his finger for Mr. Lammer to skip like an intoxicated lamb, she thought he was swanking. The most she had expected of her new-found friend was a novel angle which would help her.

When the lights went up he saw (for her hat was removed) that she was a little older than he had thought. This pleased him. He paid for a light fish supper out of his last half-crown and went to bed full of noble resolves.

Mr. Evans, of Sansovino House, Bayham Mews, was not without influence. There were people in Camden Town who never heard his name mentioned without employing the most regrettable expressions to describe The World's Premier Racing Prophet and Turf Adviser; but there were others who through thick and thin were loyalty personified.

Mr. Lammer, the High-Class Draper and Ladies' Outfitter, for example, never ceased to sound the praises of one who, at a critical moment in his history, when every other man who came into his office carried a writ of summons in his inside left-hand pocket, had imparted to Mr. Lammer the exclusive information that Braxted could fall down, have a fit and then win the Stewards' Cup.

The distracted Mr. Lammer had in his possession at the time the sum of four hundred pounds, which he had put aside for the rainy day when he would be obliged (in the language of Camden Town) to do a guy. This sum, withheld from his creditors, he invested on Braxted at 25-1. And Braxted won. Twenty-five times f400 is exactly 10,000, and with this sum Mr. Lammer paid his debts, extended his premises and entered upon a newer and brighter life.

He was not a cultured man, being one of those who admitted responsibility for his own success, and he admired the erudition of his humble friend beyond words.

"Certainly, Mr. Evans," he said, as the educated man sat on the edge of a chair in his office and made his request, "I'll do anything I can for you. I've given up backin' 'orses, but if you're ever short of a few pound, step in and ask for what you want. You say that this young lady is All Right?"

Evans drew a long breath.

"She's the daughter of a colonel in the Army," he explained fervently, "and a perfect lady: owin' to a bank failure the family's ruined. She's like the celebrated Dick Whittin'ton an' don't know the way to turn. And she reminds me of the well-known an' highly respected wife of Julius Cesar, the far-famed Italian—she's above the position."

So it was arranged that Clara Develle should go into Lammer's store as junior cashier at a reasonable salary, and Evans purred his way back to Bayham Mews, where the young aristocrat was in residence, and waited for the friendly dark to tell her the good news.

"I must say it's awfully good of you, Mr. Evans," she said rapidly—she was rather a quick talker. "What a bit of luck for me that I met you as I did! I'm sure my poor pa would have died with shame if he knew I was going into business—as a matter of fact he died from eppoplexity during the air-raids, him being a general and naturally brave."

Educated Evans scarcely noticed her parent's promotion.

"Has that feller been worrying you again?" he asked with a sub-tone of ferocity.

On the previous night they had discussed the furtive young man who came and went in the dark. Mr. Evans had recognised him.

"Mr. Erman? Oh, dear, no," she protested. "I'd never dream of looking twice at him. Saucy monkey if ever there was one."

"I saw him talking to you in the mews to-night—" began Evans.

"Merely passing the time of day. One has to be civil in my position. I mean to say, you've got to be polite if you're a lady," she said breathlessly.

Evans, the loyalest of men, felt she should know the worst.

"He's a crook, a hook, and a twister," said Evans. He's done time for burglary and he owes me two pun' ten over Charley's Mount, what I put him on to. Remember, miss, if there's any trouble, I'm around!"

She said she would remember: she said this rather vaguely, as though she were thinking of something else.

"You've been simply marvellous to me," said the General's daughter with a sigh, and when I get working I'm going to give you a little souvenir."

"A bit of ribbon," said Educated Evans sentimentally, "a stay lace—anything to remind me of you—nothing expensive."

Things were not going well with Evans. He might have paraphrased a Mr. Browning and said, "Never the chance and the girl and the money all together."

A week later Educated Evans watched the stream of life passing along Hampstead Road, and mused a little sorrowfully upon the unattainable value of things. Every motor-omnibus that flew by was worth a thousand pounds; not a cyclist plodded across the field of his vision that was not supported by a couple of pounds' worth of old iron and rubber.

The landlord of his suite in Bayham Mews had that morning demanded (with a certain significant reference to the number of people who were begging and praying for the accommodation usurped by Mr. Evans) that the four weeks' arrears of rent should be paid by twelve noon on the following day, failing which—

Detective-Sergeant Challoner stood by his side in as earnest a contemplation of the pageant of life. A keen wind blew down High Street, though the sun shone overhead in a blue and white sky: it was spring. Outside the White Hart the red-nosed Lolly Marks stood behind a big basket banked high with daffodils and narcissi—the placards bore the magic slogan "Lincolnshire Favourite Coughing"—the vernal equinox had swung to Camden Town.

"If people would act honourable," said Mr. Evans, "this would be a grand world to live in. As William Shakespeare, the well-known and highly popular poet, says, 'What a game it is!' and he was right."

"Broke?" asked The Miller, with a certain hard sympathy.

Yet he did not look broke. Mr. Evans for once was dressed up to his position. His moustache was trimmed, his collar was clean, and only an expert could see where he had scissored the frayed edges. A ready-made cravat was embellished by a jewel that might have been a ruby worth a couple of thousand pounds, but probably wasn't.

"To pieces," said Educated Evans, and shrugged his hock- bottle shoulders. "When you re'lise that I sent out the winner of the Newbury Hurdle to three thousan' nine hundred and forty clients, and that all I had back for my trouble was twelve bob and a 'slush' ten-shillin' note that I nearly got penal servitude for passin', you understand why men like the celebrated Sir Francis Columbus went an' lived in America."

"Why don't you see Lammer—he's a pal of yours?"

Evans screwed up his face in contempt.

"I never 'touch' a client," he said, and spoke the amazing truth.

"Why are you waiting here?" asked The Miller after a long silence. "Lookin' for anybody? By the way, you haven't seen Nosey Erman about, have you?"

"No, I haven't," said Evans. "that feller's less than the dust to me, to use a well-known expression."

"I wonder why he's turned up in Camden Town?" The Miller mused. "He's got some game on, I'll bet."

Well Mr. Evans knew the game of the wanderer. He had returned to filch the heart of an innocent girl—the sharp eyes of the educated man had detected the amorous Nosey. His exposure was accomplished.

The Miller pulled at his long nose, and then:

"Come round to my lodgings this afternoon and I'll hand you a pound," he said as he prepared to go. "But don't come if you can tap anybody else."

Between gratitude and sardonic mirth at the prospect of tapping anybody Mr. Evans was slightly incoherent.

Long after The Miller had gone he waited, and presently his vigil was rewarded.

A slim, neatly dressed girl walked quickly up Bayham Street and turned towards the High Street. In an instant Educated Evans was flying across the roadway, and at the sound of his voice the girl turned with a smile.

"Why, Mr. Evans," she said, "I thought you were at Cheltenham!"

"My car broke down," said Mr. Evans mendaciously. "The carburetter keeps on back-firing: for two pins I'd send it back to old Rolls and give him a bit of me mind!"

He fell in by her side, and for two minutes fifty-five seconds and a few fifths he trod on air, and his heart sang comic songs.

Just short of Lammer's Corner she stopped and held out her hand with a sigh.

"You are lucky, Mr. Evans," she said enviously. "It must be wonderful to be your own master: to go where you like and how you like. I wish I had a lot of money.

Evans wished the same thing as fervently, but he did not say so.

She sighed.

"I wish I knew what was going to win that big race at Cheltenham," she said.

"Benny's Hope," replied Evans promptly. "I had it from the owner, who's a personal friend of mine. That horse could fall down, get up, turn round to see what was going to be last, and then win."

"Benny's Hope," she said thoughtfully, and then: "I've got that souvenir for you, Mr. Evans," she said. "You wouldn't think I was fast if I brought it round to your flat one night, would you?"

And before he realised it, she had disappeared through the ornamental portals of Lammer's High-Class Drapers and Ladies' Outfitters.

Evans walked thoughtfully back to his apartment, planning matrimony.