eye to bear upon an assistant, he projected his chest, knitted one

brow and partially closed the left eyelid.

An expression of speculative wonder overspread the countenance of Mr.

Polly. He felt he must see. Yes, whatever happened he must see.

"Want to speak to Parsons, Sir," he said to Mr. Mansfield, and

deserted his post hastily, dashed through the intervening departments

and was in position behind a pile of Bolton sheeting as the governor

came in out of the street.

What on Earth do you think you are doing with that window, Parsons?"

began Mr. Garvace.

Only the legs of Parsons and the lower part of his waistcoat and an

intervening inch of shirt were visible. He was standing inside the

window on the steps, hanging up the last strip of his background from

the brass rail along the ceiling. Within, the Manchester shop window

was cut off by a partition rather like the partition of an

old-fashioned church pew from the general space of the shop. There was

a panelled barrier, that is to say, with a little door like a pew door

in it. Parsons' face appeared, staring with round eyes at his

employer.

Mr. Garvace had to repeat his question.

The History of Mr Polly