452 if ANGEL PAVEMENT

Turgis had looked and talked for some time now.

The mystery of Stanley was cleared up when Mr.
Dersingham, very much the Saturday man in plus fours,
arrived to go through the letters, for among these was
one from Stanley's father, apparently a man of few
words, who announced that Stanley was needed badly
by his uncle, just returned to the ironmongering in
Homerton, where the boy would be nearer home and
have a better chance of getting on than in Angel Pave-
ment—and sorry no better notice given, but half fort-
night's wages due could be kept but please send Insur-
ance Card all filled in—Yrs truly, Thos. Poole.

'That means getting another boy," said Mr. Dersing-
ham. 'I'm sorry about that one, too. He was a lazy
little devil like all of 'em, but he looked rather bright,
didn't he?"

"Wasn't a bad boy at all, Mr. Dersingham," said Mr.
Smeeth meditatively. "I'm sorry he's left us, too. We
might get a lot worse. He fancied himself as a budding
detective, Stanley did—we used to pull his leg about
shadowing people and all that."

"Did he? A detective, eh? And I never knew that.
He'd got that from reading about 'em, you know. I'm
fond of a good detective yarn myself. But I never
wanted to be one when I was a boy. They weren't quite
so much the thing then, were they? I remember I
wanted to be an explorer—you know, expeditions across
the desert and all that sort of thing. All the exploring
I've done lately, Smeeth, has been looking for some of
those mouldy Jew cabinet-making places in back streets
in North London. Ah—well!" And for a moment the
large pink face of Mr. Dersingham looked clouded, as if
he had suddenly discovered that life was quite different