he said. "Very awk'ard—for this young Philip!"
"I reckon!" agreed the first speaker. "It would—so far as I can see. Well? I'm for home!"
The two men stumped out and Wedgwood, who had affected to read a newspaper while he listened threw it aside, and lighting his pipe proceeded to think over the information acquired from their gossip. So Wraypoole had been in touch with Janet Clagne, had he? About what? Had he told her of the existence of Avice Mortover, and of her claim to be Matthew Mortover's only surviving child? Impossible to answer those questions, of course! Nobody could answer them but John Wraypoole and Janet Clagne—and he was dead and she . . . one might as well expect an answer from the Sphinx as a reply from her—unless she was pleased to give it.
But Wedgwood was determined to know more of that interview, and next morning after breakfast he walked round to the street called Horsefair and sought for Mrs. Chipchase's shop. That was soon found—an old-fashioned place, the bow-window of which was filled with cakes and pastries; through its brightly-polished panes he saw a smart, alert-looking woman busied behind a counter. And having
