nearer, floor by floor (the Brown flat was on the highest), and a vigorous knock sounded on the door. With an instinctive courtesy, even at that moment, the musician at once went to answer it, absent-mindedly still grasping the weapon in his hand. A sturdy little man in a long blue coat stood outside; skilfully balanced on his shoulder was a weighty sack.
"You required small coal, sir?"
"This way," replied Mr. Brown, somewhat dazed. He did not care whether the coal was small or in half-hundredweight blocks. He led the way and the man followed and shot his burden.
"I'm afraid that it's rather a pull, coming up so far," apologised Brown. "Are there two of you?"
"Oh, that makes no odds," replied the coal-man amiably. "You see, I take a special interest in musicians, and hearing that you were desperate like"
"You knew that I was a musician?"
"Oh, yes; I often hear you playing."
"Really! I had no idea that my violin carried down to the street. And I don't seem to remember your call before."
"I seldom have occasion to call in the street now. Not that I am ashamed of my call—or of my calling. That can never be said of Tom Britton, sir. Even when I happen to meet, as I sometimes do, my duchess"
"Your duchess!"
"Her Grace of Queensberry, I mean, sir; she being so regular at my concerts"
"Concerts! You give concerts? Really. But how . . . where . . . Do you take the Queen's Hall?"
"Queen's Hall? Oh, no; it's just a loft over my coalshed against Clerkenwell—a few chairs, a platform, a cup of coffee, and music of a Thursday evening."
"I see . . . over your coal-shed . . . and the duchess
