N the following morning Kate and I met as usual in the office of the mission; and as usual she appeared three quarters of an hour after the time she was nominally to be expected. She looked more ravishing than ever; the art that conceals art had never more inconspicuously pervaded every line and shade of her garments, every tress of her hair; her smile opened up a long vista of possibilities. Again I strongly felt the sentiments that had inspired me overnight; I could have closed the desk on the spot and seized her hands; but I restrained myself and merely asked instead what had become of her fellow-missionary. She was indisposed, it appeared, and could not come to-day.

“She's rather worried about our finances,” said Kate, though not in a tone that seemed to share the anxiety.

I had more than once wondered where the money was coming from and how long it would last, but hitherto I had avoided this sordid aspect of the crusade.

“We can't go on any longer unless we get some more money,” she added. “What with all my other expenses I can't run to much more, and Miss Clibborn isn't very well off.”

“My own purse—” I began.

“Oh,” she interrupted, “we want a capitalist to finance us regularly, and Miss Clibborn has found a man who may help if he approves of our work. He is coming down this morning.”

“What!” I exclaimed. “We are to be inspected by a philanthropist any moment?”

“Yes,” she said, with a laugh. “So you had better get out your papers and look busy.”

“Who is this benefactor?” I inquired, as I hastily made the most of our slender correspondence.

“I can't remember his name; but he is something in the city. Very rich, of course.”

“And if he refuses to help?”

“Then we must shut up shop, I suppose,” she answered, with a smile that was very charming even if somewhat inappropriate to this sad contingency. “Shall you be sorry?”

“Disconsolate!” I said, with more emotion than my employer had shown.

The door opened and the head of our grimy caretaker appeared.

“A gentleman to see you, miss,” she said.

“Show him in,” said Kate.

“The philanthropist!” I exclaimed, dipping my pen in the ink and taking in my other hand the gas bill.

A heavy step sounded in the passage, mingled with a strangely familiar sound of puffing, and then in walked a stout, gray-whiskered, red-faced gentleman whose apoplectic presence could never be forgotten by me. It was my old friend, Mr. Fisher, of Chickawungaree Villa!

“You are—ah—Miss Kerry?” he said, heavily, but with politeness.

As she held out her hand I could see even upon his stolid features unmistakable evidence of surprise and admiration at meeting this apparition in the dinginess of East London.

“Yes,” she said. “And you, I suppose, are—”

“Mr. Fisher—a fisher of—ha, ha!—women, it seems, down here.”

The old Gorgon was actually jesting with a pretty girl! As I thought of him in his diningroom I could scarcely believe my senses.

“And this gentleman,” he said, turning towards me, “is, I suppose—”

He paused; his eyes had met mine, and I fear I was somewhat unsuccessfully endeavoring to conceal a smile.

“Fisher!” I said, holding out my hand. “How do you do?”

He did not, however, take it; yet he evidently did not know what to do instead.

“Then you know Mr. Fisher?” said Kate.

“We have met,” I replied, “and we could give you some entertaining reminiscences of our meeting. Could we not, Mr. Fisher?”

“What are you doing here?” said Fisher, slowly.

“Atoning for the errors of a profligate youth,” I replied, “and assisting in the education and advancement of woman.”

For some reason he did not appear to take this statement quite seriously. In England, when you tell the truth it must be told with a solemn countenance; no expression in the face, nothing but a simple yet sufficient movement of the jaws, as though you were masticating a real turtle. A smile, a relieving touch of lightness in your words, and you are instantly set down as an irreverent jester.

“Miss Kerry,” he said, sententiously, “I warn you against this person.”

“But—why?” exclaimed the astonished Kate.

“I say no more. I warn you,” said Mr. Fisher, with a dull glance at me.

“Come, now,” I said, pleasantly, for I recollected that the mission depended on this monster's good-humor, “let us bury the pick-axe, as you would say. The truth is, Miss Kerry, that Mr. Fisher and I once had a merry evening together, but, unluckily, towards midnight we fell out about some trifle; it matters not what; some matter of gallantry that sometimes for a moment separates friends. She preferred him; but I bear no grudge. That is all, is it not, Fisher?”

And I gave him a surreptitious wink to indicate that he should endorse this innocent version of our encounter.

Unluckily, at this point Kate turned her back and began to titter.

The overfed eye of Fisher moved slowly from one to the other of us.

“I came down here,” he said, “at my friend Miss Clibborn's request to—ah—satisfy myself of the usefulness of her mission. Is this a mission—or what is it?”

“It is a mission,” replied Kate, trying hard to sober herself. “We are doing ex—ex—cellent work.”

But at that point she had recourse to her handkerchief.

“Our work, sir,” I interposed, “is doing an incalculable amount of benefit. It is the most philanthropic, the most judicious—”

I stopped for the good reason that I could no longer make myself heard. There was a noise of altercation and scuffling outside our door that startled even the phlegmatic Fisher.

“What on earth is this?” he demanded.

The door opened violently.

“I can't 'old 'er no longer,” wailed the voice of our caretaker, and in a moment more there entered as perfect a specimen of one of the Furies as it has ever been my lot to meet.

She was a woman we had never seen before, a huge creature with a bloated face adorned by the traces of a recently blacked eye; her bonnet had been knocked over one ear in the scuffle with the caretaker, and her raw hands still clutched two curling-pins with the adjacent locks detached from her adversary's head.

“Madam,” I said, “what can we do for you?”

I was determined to let Fisher see the businesslike style in which we conducted our philanthropic operations.

“Where is he? Where the bloomin' blankness is he?” thundered the virago.

Poor Kate gave a little exclamation.

“Leave her to me,” I said, reassuringly. “Where is who, my good woman?”

“My 'usband. You've gone and stole my 'us-band away! But I'll have the law on yer! I'll make it blooming hot for yer!” (Only “blooming” was not the adjective she employed.)

“Who are you, and what do you want?” said Fisher.

There was something so ponderous in his accents that our visitor was impressed in spite of herself.

“My name is Mrs. Fulcher, and I wants my 'usband. Them there lydies wot's come 'ere to mike mischief in the 'omcs of pore, hinnercent wiminen, they've give Mrs. Martin the money to do it.”

“To do what?” said Fisher.

“To go for a 'oliday to the seaside, and she's took my 'usband with her!”

“Taken your husband!” I exclaimed. “Why should she do that?”

“Because she ain't got no 'usband of her own, and never 'ad. Missis Martin, indeed! Needin' a 'oliday for 'er 'ealth! That's wot yer calls helevatin' wimmen! 'Elpin' himmorality, I calls it!”

“This is a nice business, young man!” said Fisher, turning to me.

Unfortunately for himself he had the ill-taste to smile at this triumph over his ex-burglar.

“Oh, you'd larf, would yer!” shrieked the deserted spouse. “You hold proflergate, I believe you done it on purpose!”

“Me?” gasped Fisher. “You ill-tempered, noisy—”

But before he could finish this impeachment he received Mrs. Fulcher's right fist on his nose, followed by a fierce charge of her whole massive person; and in another moment the office of the women's mission was the scene of as desperate a conflict as the bastion of the Malakoff. Kate screamed once and then shut her lips, and watched the struggle with a very pale face, while I hurled myself impetuously upon the Amazon and endeavored to seize her arms.

“Police! Call the police!” shouted Fisher.

“Perlice, perlice,” echoed his enemy. “I'll per-lice yer, yer dirty, himmoral hold 'ulk!”

And bang, bang, went her fists against the side of his head.

“Idiot, virago, stop!” I cried, compressing her swinging arm to her side at last.

“Send for the police!” boomed the hapless Fisher.

“Police!” came the frenzied voice of the caretaker at the front door.

“I'll smash yer bloomin' 'ead like a bloomin' cocoanut!” shouted Mrs. Fulcher, bringing the other arm into play.

“Compress her wind-pipe, Fisher,” I advised. “Tap her claret! Hold her legs! She kicks!”

Such a contest was too fierce to last; her vigor relaxed; Fisher was enabled to thrust her head beneath his arm, and I to lift her by the knees, so that by the time the policemen arrived all they had to do was to raise our foe from the floor and bear her away still kicking freely and calling down the vengeance of Heaven upon us.

My first thought was for the unfortunate witness of this engagement.

“You are upset, Miss Kerry; you are disturbed, I fear. Let me bring you water.”

“I'm all right, thanks,” she replied, with wonderful composure, though she was pale as a sheet by now.

“But what is this?” I cried, pointing to a mark on her face. “Were you struck?”

“It's nothing,” she replied, feeling for her handkerchief. “She hit me by mistake.”

So engrossed was I that I had quite forgotten Fisher; but now I was reminded by the sound of a stentorian grunt.

“Ugh!” he groaned. “Get me a cab; fetch me a cab, some one.”

Blood was dripping from his nose; his collar was torn, his cheeks scarred by the nails of his foe; everything, even his whiskers, seemed to have suffered. It would not be easy to persuade this victim of the wars to patronize our mission now, but for Kate's sake I thought I must try.

“Well, Fisher,” I said, heartily, “you are a sportsman! Your spirit and your vigor, my dear sir, were quite admirable.”

For reply he only snorted again and repeated his demand for a cab. Well, I sent one of a large crowd of boys who had collected outside the mission to fetch one, and suavely returned to the attack. It was not certainly encouraging to find that he and Kate had evidently exchanged no amenities while I was out of the room, but, ignoring this air of constraint, I said to him:

“We shall see you soon again, I trust? We depend upon your aid, you know. You have shown us your martial ardor! let us benefit equally by your pacific virtues!”

“I shall see myself—” began Fisher. Then he glanced at Kate and altered his original design into, “a very long way before I return to this office. It is disgraceful, sir; madam, I say it is disgraceful.”

“But what is?” I asked.

“Everything about this place, sir. Mission? I call it a bear-garden, that's what I call it.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Fisher,” began Kate, but our patron was already on his way out without another word to either of us. And I had been his rescuer! He slammed the door behind him, and that was the last of my friend Fisher.

For a moment or two we remained silent. “Well,” said Kate, with a little laugh, “that's the end of our mission.”

“The end, I fear,” I replied.