The Lady With the Key

H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.

T was one of those pitch-black nights the opaqueness of which is merely emphasised by the street lamps. The sky was heavy with cloud, and a light rain descended almost as a thick dew. It had been about half-past one when I left Dawson's flat, and I had walked in a leisurely manner, so that I reckoned it must be just upon two o'clock. The street through which I was striking to reach my quarters was quiet enough, but away in the distance was the faint mumble of the town—the town that never sleeps. Between lamp-post and lamp-post I travelled methodically, my measured steps ringing rhythmically upon the pavement. The light shone on the big houses flush with the walk, with porticoes of a faded Palladian taste. They were alike as peas, and unindividualised as a row of tenements in the slums. Yet each, no doubt, bespoke a respectable rent, and was the shell of some handsome trappings and a prosperous household.

Midway between two lamp-posts I thought I caught a glimpse of a woman, but the figure vanished almost instantaneously into the shelter and protection of a portico. The ring of my feet was audible. There was a vision of skirts in the dimness, the figure flashed out again, if I may put it that way, and suddenly I came to a stop.

"I wonder if you would be so good as to help me. I—I have been waiting for a policeman" The voice trailed off distressfully, leaving its want unknown.

"A policeman?" I repeated. "Has anyone"

"Oh, thank you, I don't mean that," she interrupted with quick intelligence. "It's merely that I can't get the door open. The key won't turn."

It was an easy, matter-of-fact, everyday difficulty, and I responded like the ordinary man. That is to say, I walked with her up the steps into the portico, and in the circumferent darkness bent my eye to the key-hole and endeavoured to move the key. It resisted my efforts, and she stood by, showing her embarrassment in her restlessness.

"No matter," said I. "There is probably dirt in it," and I blew lustily down the key. It produced a long, melancholy, wailing whistle, and I inserted it again—with no result.

"I wonder what can have happened?" cried my companion in distress.

I had as yet had no opportunity of passing any judgment upon her. I knew not if she were old or middle-aged or young. All I did know was that she was in evening-dress, for her wrap had fallen away, and that she had a nice voice.

I was wrestling with the key in the lock for what seemed a confoundedly long time, and then a fear seemed to strike her.

"This is Number 18, isn't it?" she asked anxiously. We both retreated outside the portico and studied the frieze, or whatever architects call it. It was involved in the general darkness, and nothing inscribed thereon could possibly be visible. I felt in the pockets of my overcoat, and produced a matchbox which held precisely three matches. One I struck, and in the flare we eagerly scrutinised the lintel, if that is what they call it.

"Number 18," I read out.

"Oh, I was afraid I had made a mistake," sighed my companion.

"On the contrary," said I, "I was rather hoping you had."

"Oh!" she cried, and hesitated, as if she reflected. "I'm sorry. Yes, I'm detaining you. It is selfish and inconsiderate of me."

But I had had a glimpse of her in the flare of the match, and I certainly had not meant that. I was not tired of the job at all, but I was anxious that she should be relieved of anxiety. She was not old, and she was not middle-aged. She had rather dazzled me, or the flaring match had. I went back and tried again, and failed. Her sigh was disconcerting.

"Perhaps, if we rang the bell, the servants would hear," I suggested tentatively, in my ignorance of the conditions prevailing in the household. Surely she must have considered this device before. She had.

"They must all be in bed long since," she said sadly, "and they sleep at the top of the house. They sleep like—like the dead," she added with a touch of bitterness.

I pondered.

"There is no one who would hear if we kept on pealing at the bell?" I inquired.

She hesitated a moment, and then: "No one," she said.

"That's awkward," I replied thoughtfully, and added: "Do you think there's any chance of getting in by the basement? This key must have got twisted."

She did not treat my suggestion with particular enthusiasm, but was evidently anxious not to lose any chance.

"We could try, couldn't we?" she observed anxiously.

We did try, but the door in the area was fast and immovable. In desperation now, I put my hand on the window, which was dimly visible, and, behold! the sash fell loosely downwards, opening a wide cavity into blackness.

"Hooray!" I said in triumph when I had realised.

"Can you manage it? What has happened?" asked the lady eagerly in my ear.

I told her. "So you've only got to climb in," I wound up. I felt her momentary failure to respond conveyed a doubt on her part. "It's easy," I went on, "if you will allow me to give you a—well, a leg up, they call it."

It was perhaps rather an unfortunate phrase, as I realised the next moment. "I don't think" she began hesitatingly; but I interrupted, feeling it due to her.

"I will get through, and then open the lower portion of the window or the door. It was stupid of me not to have thought of that." I began to scramble through the chasm as I spoke, and in a few seconds was safe inside what was evidently a sort of scullery.

"Don't bother about the door, please. If you will kindly open the window below, I can get in," said the lady.

I pushed up the sash, remembering now for the first time that I could have done this from without. In less than three minutes, my associate in this nocturnal adventure stood by my side.

"Perhaps we had better shut these up, for fear of burglars," she suggested, panting a little in her excitement.

I secured the windows, and, opening my matchbox, struck the second match. This light discovered to me a small encumbered room, with a copper and other appurtenances of a kitchen, also a beautiful face quite close to me, and traces of an admirable evening vesture below white neck and throat, and under a protecting wrap.

"There's the door out into the passage," she said quickly. "Do you mind lighting the way?"

I didn't at all mind lighting the way, particularly as it enabled me to see her and not only to hear her; but I was more than doubtful as to the sufficing duration of my vesta. However, I went boldly forward, and the lady picked her way alertly into the passage and towards the stairs which led to the ground floor above. At the foot of the stairs she paused for a moment, and I noticed that she cast a glance of inquiry, as it were—almost of something more—down the passage. At the head of the stairway my match expired.

"Oh!" She uttered a small exclamation of dismay. "Will you please light another? There'll be candles in the hall."

I did not care to reveal just then that I had only one more match. I recognised we must be somewhere at the bottom of the hall, and so concluded all would be well. But for complete safety I edged a little farther along, and got in front of her before I struck the third match. It lit up weakly a somewhat spacious hall, on one side of which the staircase rose to the upper floors, while upon the other I could discern, among other things, a table. I moved towards it, and the lady was following me.

"The candles will be" she began, and of a sudden stopped. I turned. Her eyes were blankly fixed on a picture hanging on the wall. My finger-tips were growing warm as the flame ran down the match. Suddenly she turned her eyes on me, and they were no longer blank, but held a certain wildness.

"It—it's the wrong house!" she said in a hoarse whisper. "It isn't my house!"

As I took this in, startled and alarmed, the flame seared my finger and went out. In utter darkness we continued facing each other.

"Not your house?" I repeated, lowering my voice instinctively on receipt of this astounding news.

"No!" She came closer, till I felt her breath, and she was like a frightened child. "It was Number 18, wasn't it?" she almost whimpered, "and it looked like it. What has happened?"

"How did you get here?" I asked, feeling the time had come for some judicial investigation.

"I took a cab from Heston Street, where I'd been, and I got out at the corner," she explained tremulously. "The horse stumbled and went down, and I was afraid to come on in it. So, as I was so near home, I walked."

"Oh!" said I, but the explanation did not help us in our predicament. If this wasn't the lady's house, it was only left for us to get out of it as quickly as possible. "We had better go out by the way we came," I suggested after a moment's reflection.

"Please strike a light," I heard a strained voice issuing out of the darkness.

The confession had to come now, and it came with all the greater force. "I'm sorry"

"Oh"—her voice was a wail—"don't say you have none!"

I didn't say. "Perhaps we shall find some on this table, which was somewhere here," I ventured instead.

"But it isn't my house—it isn't"

"Anyhow, I'll feel," I said. I groped my way to the table and felt, to no purpose, except that I nearly upset a china bowl full of cards.

"Can you find them?" a whisper reached me. "Where are you Don't leave me!"

I rejoined her. "Perhaps we'd better get out by the front door," I suggested. "I'll find the electric switch."

"Hark! Oh, what's that? We've woke them!" she declared, clinging to me.

I listened. "No," I reassured her, "all is quiet. We are not making any noise." An idea occurred to me. "Perhaps it would be wiser to rouse them and explain."

"No, no!" she said pitifully. "I couldn't—it would be too awkward. Let's get out, as you say, by the front door."

It was pitch black, as I have already explained, and in talking to her I had lost sense of my direction. I thought I knew where the table was, and, if I knew that, I was certain of the door, for I could grope along the wall to it. So I started, my unhappy companion clutching hold of me by the tails as she followed. The first thing I recognised was that I had run hard into a post, which, taking me in the stomach, winded me. A faint exclamation of alarm escaped my associate, and when I recovered enough to explore, I decided that this was part of the balustrading of the staircase. If that were so, I had only to proceed in the opposite direction, very straight, in order to reach the hall-door and the switch.

Do you know what it is to be thoroughly seized by panic? I marched forward with hands outstretched, the lady still clutching me, and I struck a wall, not a door. I groped along it, found it end, and there and then abysmal fear descended. Where was I, or, for the matter of that, where were we? I was afraid we might be back at the top of the stairs which led down to the basement, and might be precipitated headlong by a false step. I pushed a foot out very cautiously, clutching what remained of the wall. The floor was still solid beneath me. I went a step further, along the other side of the wall, and a minute later I fell over a chair, which rattled horribly.

"Oh," cried my companion in agitation, "they'll hear!"

I listened, and it did seem to my ears that there was a crack as if made by a door opening upstairs. For a moment we stood there silent, both trembling together, and then I decided that I had been mistaken. Terror magnified all noises in that silent house. I resumed my journey, this time taking special precautions against tumbling over obstacles. Eventually we arrived at a sofa, though what it was doing there I did not know. I sat down on it, exhausted, and invited my companion to do the same. We sat for some minutes in silence, endeavouring to recover, and I personally racked my wits for a way out.

"Do you know where we are?" she breathed fearfully.

"I fancy it must be the dining-room," I said, "but I don't know for certain."

"Then there's sure to be a lot of chairs and things, isn't there?" she said despairingly.

"If we go carefully, we shall be all right," I tried to reassure her.

"But where shall we get to? What are we going to do?" she inquired dolefully.

Aye, there was the rub. We had three chances—one of blundering on the hall-door, and so getting into the street, another of hitting on the switch of the electric lights, and the third of discovering a box of matches. There was the fourth course which I had already suggested to her, and which she had repudiated—that of surrender. I suggested it again, but, desperate as she was, she was not so desperate as that—yet. We resumed.

I dislocated a heavy picture on the wall, and all but brought it down, and shortly after the escape from that dread calamity, my companion stepped into the fender among fire-irons. The noise brought our hearts to our mouths once again, and we listened in alarm. It was fortunate that the people in the house seemed sound sleepers. I searched the mantelpiece in vain for matches, and we continued. Presently we reached another sofa—at least, I thought it was another sofa—but, after a few minutes' reflection, the awful thought struck me that it was the same sofa, and that we had made a circuit of the room without getting out. When we had come to a third sofa, I was sure that my fears were justified.

"There seem a lot of sofas," complained my companion.

I thought it would be cruel to undeceive her, and I made a strenuous effort not to find a fourth sofa. I plunged into space, leaving the comparatively safe anchorage of the walls. I walked steadily five, ten, fifteen, twenty paces without accident, with my follower clinging passionately behind, and then I paused, deciding that I must have passed through the doorway and be in the hall once more. I resumed, hoping to hit upon either the wall or the staircase, and resolved, when I did so, to explore very carefully from my base. I went ten paces, twenty paces farther, and I began to wonder. The whole house could not be all that width. I moved more slowly still in vacancy, and then at last my outstretched hand came in contact with woodwork. I felt it carefully, and found it was a door. Joy and hope thrilled me. I groped for the handle and turned it. I put out one foot, tripped, and fell among innumerable boots, dragging my tail after me.

Luckily the sounds were muffled in that boot cupboard, for it was quite a little time before I succeeded in soothing my companion. When we extricated ourselves, we proceeded with greater caution, but I think my partner's confidence in me had weakened. At all events, she no longer clung to me, though she kept close. She had grown so desperate that she began to explore on her own account.

"Here's a door," she whispered presently. "Perhaps there are matches in here—or a switch."

"Try it," said I encouragingly.

I heard the door open with a small creak, and there was silence. I waited for a time, and then asked: "Where are you?"

"I think I'm in a larder," came back faintly. "There's an awful smell of cheese! Oh"—I heard a plop and an exclamation—"I've put my hand into something wet and horrid!"

"Cream," I suggested. "Do you keep matches in larders?" "No, I don't think so," she replied.

"Well, there's only one thing for it now," I said, bracing myselof. "We've got to explore upstairs for matches."

"Where—where they're sleeping!" she said fearfully. "But we can't find the stairs," she added.

"Yes, I've just made a discovery," I told her. "There's a flight just behind me—the servants' stairs, I've no doubt. We can get up by them."

She did not seem enthusiastic over the proposal, but apparently she saw there was no alternative. We crept up the stairs very quietly, and reached a landing. On each side of us now we were aware that there were bedrooms, and matches. The problem was how to penetrate one and get the other.

"Boots outside doors will tell us whether the rooms are tenanted," I whispered "Look out for them, and don't fall over any, for goodness' sake. You feel that side of the passage, and I'll take this. Go slowly."

We parted, and, two invisible shadows, moved about our fearsome task. I heard a stertorous breathing on my left, and paused. No, it was too risky to venture into an occupied room, even for all my growing recklessness. I heard a faint noise to my right, and a hand delicately felt for me.

"Oh, I'm glad you're there! I've found a door without any boots," she whispered.

"Capital!" I whispered back. "We'll explore the room." I crossed over with her, and we gently pushed the door open and listened. The chamber was wrapt in silence.

"You go round that wall, and I'll go round this, and we'll meet," I said under my breath. "One of us may find a box."

I turned off, and guided myself with infinite precaution, avoided two chairs, one wardrobe, and a single bed. This last scared me, but I came to the conclusion it was empty, and my spirits rose. On the mantelpiece, on a table—somewhere—there must be matches.

An exclamation which was like the ghost of a shriek died in the room, and my heart stood still. Next moment something blundered into me—something warm and frightened.

"What is it?"

"Hush! Get me out!" she panted.

I retraced my way by the wall, and we reached the passage outside in safety.

"There was someone in bed!" she said, horrified.

"But the bed I found was empty" I began.

"My bed wasn't," she whispered. "There was a man in it, and I pulled his hair, thinking it was an antimacassar. Oh, he'll wake up now! What are we to do?"

I didn't know. I was at a loss. Our match expedition had been a failure, and we were just where we had been, only worse, if I may put it in an Irish way, in being upstairs.

"Do you think you can find the staircase again?" she asked miserably.

"I doubt it," I said as dolefully, "but I'll try."

The mysteries of life and the riddles of Nature are unaccountable, so are the perverse tricks of fortune. I struck the stairs at the very first attempt, and I went down them quite comfortably, with my hand on the guiding banisters. I was so accustomed to the darkness by this time that I had not the slightest doubt that I could have marched straight away to the hall-door and got out. Indeed, I hardly delayed at all when we reached the ground floor, but was stepping manfully if circumspectly forward, when of a sudden the whole place flashed into light.

My companion's cry of horror was echoed in my heart. I hastily turned, and at the top of the stairs I beheld a smallish man, with a grey head and white moustache, in a big dressing-gown.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" he demanded somewhat fussily.

"If you will be good enough to come down, I will explain," I said gently.

He hesitated for a moment, and then cautiously descended; and I noticed, as he drew nearer, that he had a revolver in one hand. By the time he had reached us he appeared to have acquired courage, for he addressed us haughtily.

"I demand an explanation of this. What are you doing in my house?"

Flourishing his revolver, he drove us with a sort of "shooing" motion of his hands into a room, and when thus of necessity we retreated, he put his back against the door and presented his weapon dramatically. It was evident that he was rather proud of the situation now, and that our obvious discomfiture had pleased him.

"I suppose," he began sarcastically, "that you are only amateurs at the game as yet, as you don't seem to have made much progress with your nefarious plans."

"Pardon me," said I. "We are not burglars, as perhaps, not unreasonably, you imagine."

"Indeed!" His sarcasm was more pronounced. "I should like to know on what other grounds your presence in my house at this time of night is explicable." "We—we got into the wrong house," burst forth the lady.

That drew his attention to her, and he examined her in the strong light which he had switched on as he entered. I also looked at her. What both of us saw was a pretty woman of some six or seven and twenty, pale of face, eager of eye, with a dead black evening-dress escaping from under her fleecy wrap.

"That, I understand, constitutes the usual method of procedure of burglars," he said dryly.

"My dear sir," said I, interposing, "I don't think you understand. We made a mistake, and entered under the impression that it as this lady's house."

"18, Paulton Road," she interjected.

"This is 18, Alloway Road," said he.

"Oh," she cried, "I don't know how I can have made the mistake!"

"It is odd, isn't it?" he said as dryly as before. "Well, it will be an interesting story for the police" "But," interposed the lady tearfully, "you won't send for the police. We're not burglars. You can send round to Paulton Road and have me identified by my servants. My name is Mrs. Cranley."

"Evidently," said the old donkey, elevating his eyebrows—"evidently the profession pays well. No doubt the police will be interested"

"I think, sir," I said here, "that you could easily be satisfied of our bona fides if you would listen to us. The

The old fellow bowed sarcastically in the lady's direction. "Your wife, a very attractive confederate. I congratulate you."

"It's not my husband!" burst unwisely from the lady.

"The situation is the more interesting, doubtless," he said, jerking up his white eye-brows once more.

"My name is Weston," I explained, "and I found this lady—Mrs. Cranley—endeavouring to open her door."

"Pardon me, my door," he interrupted.

"Well, yes, your door, under the impression it was hers."

"Wonderful how these impressions will get about!" said the old fool complacently, hugging his revolver. I shrugged my shoulders in despair.

He opened the door of the room with great care, keeping an eye on us, and listened. A noise of someone moving about upstairs was audible.

"Jack," he called, "is that you? I want you." There was no answer, and he pulled the door wide open and advanced a step into the hall. "Jack," he called, "I want you. Ring up the police station."

At this moment my attention was forcibly directed to Mrs. Cranley. Her face whitened, and she stared tragically at me, and then she had bolted.

How she got past the old gentleman I don't know, but she did, and luckily the revolver did not go off when he fell over the cords of his dressing-gown. She bolted, I say, and ran down the passage towards the nether part of the house as a rabbit into its burrow. "Stop her! Catch her, Jack!" cried the old gentleman from the floor. "It's a burglar!"

Ere I could get out, too, which I was distinctly inclined to do, he had risen, banged the door, and turned a key in it, leaving me on the inside. Evidently he was resolved that both of us should not escape. I had time to reflect upon the folly of the lady's act in thus enhancing the suspicion which had naturally gathered round us; but as I fumbled with the door, I found it give. The key had not been securely turned. I opened it, and peered out into the lighted hall. As I did so, a man's figure, disreputably dressed, as it seemed to me, ran stealthily out of the passage into the hall and slipped, with a furtive air and a frightened look behind, into a room on the other side. Evidently this was a real burglar. Neither the old gentleman nor Mrs. Cranley was to be seen.

Now, since I had been taken for a burglar, I was resolved at least to show my bona fides by spirited action; and so I crossed the hall, opened the door of the room which had been so carefully closed, and discovered everything in darkness. This increased my misgivings. I switched on the light, and there before me, crouching in a grandfather's chair, was the stranger. He was a young man of thirty or so, with light eyes and fair hair, and he gaped at me. I had been right in supposing him to be disreputably dressed, for he had no collar on.

"Who the deuce are you?" he inquired.

"Precisely the question I was going to put to you," I replied. "But I suppose there's no necessity. However, I don't think the game will work this time."

"Oh!" he said, and then, after a pause: "You took me for a burglar, didn't you? I say, are you with—you know, that lady?"

"If you mean the lady in evening-dress, yes, I am," I said with dignity.

"Good Lord, how did she—how did you get here?" he inquired. "I say, do you mind shutting that door? I have a particular reason."

"I have no doubt," I said with sarcasm, but I backed to the door and shut it.

"Thanks!" he said. "Have you got a cigarette? No?" He felt in his pockets and found one. "How the deuce did you get in?" he asked, lighting it. "Old Sands took you for burglars."

"Old Sands!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, the old boy, you know. He set me on to chase Mrs.—the lady. I say"—he broke into a giggle—"it's an awful shame, but she bolted into the coal cellar!"

I had begun somehow to piece things together, but still I could not place him.

"Where is Mr. Sands?" I asked.

"Oh, the old chap rushed to the telephone. He's ringing up the police," he said, calmly puffing.

The news alarmed me. I will honestly confess that I had thoughts of base and traitorous flight, leaving the lady in the cellar. After all, had not she deserted me? But the better part of my nature asserted itself. I put the temptation from me.

"You see," said the young man, who had been evidently following his own thoughts, "I recognised her in the coal cellar. That's what's the mischief. Luckily, she didn't see me properly. I left her there and did a guy, you bet."

"Recognised her?" I echoed in wonder.

"Yes," he went on. "Have a cigarette, won't you? No? Sorry! It's like this, you see. Mrs. Cranley and I are sort of engaged."

"Engaged!" I repeated. "Then why—but why"

"Should I run away? Well, it's like this, you see. She doesn't know I'm in town. She thinks I'm in France. And so I was, don't you know. But I met the Sands there, you see, and so I came back," he ended lamely.

"You had better make a clean breast of it, as you've got so far," I suggested severely.

"Oh, hang it! Well, Katherine's rather strict, and—well, you know what I mean—and I rather like a lark. And Nelly Sands is a rattling good sort, and so Did you hear anything?" he asked, breaking off abruptly.

"I hear voices in the distance," I replied.

"I don't mind, as long as she doesn't come in. You see, it would be devilish awkward explaining." He looked at me pensively, "How do you and Katherine come to be in here like this?" asked this irresponsible young man.

I told him briefly, and he exploded in laughter, checking himself suddenly as he recollected that he might be overheard.

"I fail to see anything to laugh at," I said with dignity.

"Oh, sorry!" He wiped his eyes. "Fancy Katherine and you" He broke off. "I say, your face is all smutty, and Katherine was in the coal cellar." He resolved in idiotic laughter again, but at last came to. "I'll tell you what," he said unexpectedly, "old Sands has rung up the police, and there'll be the devil of a nuisance. Couldn't you get Kath—Mrs. Cranley—away if I called off the old chap?"

He looked at me anxiously. "You see," he added, "with all this deuce of a noise, Nelly—Miss Sands—must be awake, and if I had the two of them"

He did not finish, but gazed at me imploringly. I considered. It was, perhaps, the best way out of our absurd dilemma; perhaps it was the only way.

"Very well," said I. "It is agreed, if you can get Mr. Sands away, I will make my escape with Mrs. Cranley." "Good!" He seemed relieved, and got up with alacrity, advancing towards the door.

But ere he reached it there was a sound of voices without, and he came to a stop. The handle of the door turned, and he dropped to the floor and scuttled under the mahogany table which occupied the centre of the room. Next moment Mr. Sands entered, ushering in two ladies, one of whom was Mrs. Cranley.

"Jack" he began, and stopped. "I thought Jack" He gazed at me, but his gaze was now quite benevolent, though his face was flushed. "I regret there has been all this misunderstanding," he said with fussy importance, "but you will allow that there was some reasonable ground for suspicion. However, I'm happy to say that, in the course of conversation, Mrs. Cranley and I have discovered a mutual friend to whom she is well known—Mr. John Betham."

I declare that I felt the solid table shudder at this juncture.

"Indeed!" I said. "I am very glad to hear it, for the situation had become impossible. And now, perhaps, we had better relieve you of our unwelcome and wholly unintended company."

But Mr. Sands would not hear of our departure—at least, until we had been refreshed after our trials and disturbances with a glass of wine.

"My daughter!" He introduced me ceremoniously. "Mr.—ah, Mr. Weston! Oh, yes! Well, it's an odd way of making your acquaintance, Mr. Weston, but I'm glad to have it, anyway," he said handsomely. "I wonder where on earth Jack has got to?"

Mrs. Cranley, looking very attractive despite her adventures, and indeed, perhaps, somewhat by reason of them and her slightly disordered attire, sat silent by the table, though there seemed to be hardly silence in her eyes. Old Sands talked pompously, and Miss Sands chatted gaily. She was vastly entertained by the events of the evening, as they had been unfolded to her.

"But where on earth can Jack be?" she asked presently.

At that, I knew why there was no silence in Mrs. Cranley's eyes.

Suddenly there was a ring at the bell, and Mr. Sands paused in the act of pouring out a glass of wine.

"What the mischief" He went out into the hall, and we heard his voice, after the bolts had been withdrawn. "Oh, yes, of course—much obliged. It was my mistake. I forgot to countermand the order."

"The police!" giggled Miss Sands.

"Well, constable, now you are here, a glass of wine, eh? It wouldn't come amiss, I take it. Come in." He returned, a policeman behind him, rather uncomfortable and very mild of appearance.

A glass of wine was poured out and handed to the force, who drank it respectfully. Just, however, as he was finishing, his glance, modestly lowered, suddenly stiffened. He stooped swiftly.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, and deftly swung himself under the table.

Ere the company could properly take in this manœuvre, he had reappeared with a struggling man.

"Oh, do leave me alone, you ass!" emerged in my new acquaintance's clear accents.

"Jack!" cried Miss Sands in alarm.

"Betham!" exclaimed her father.

He stood a ruffled figure in the policeman's clutch, and sheepishly settled his coat.

"Yes, it's me," he said weakly. "I got under for a lark. How are you, Katherine?"

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Betham," said Mrs. Cranley very icily.

Miss Sands, I observed, opened her mouth at this evidence of intimacy. Mrs. Cranley rose to go.

"What the dickens was the joke of getting under a table?" old Sands was demanding in perplexity.

"I think," said Mrs. Cranley with great formality, "that if the constable will be kind enough to see me to my house, I will now go."

I hastened to offer my services. "Thank you, no!" she snapped, I think a little ungratefully in the circumstances.

The constable, stolid, burly man, shuffled his feet in pleasing and awkward consciousness of his privilege when the unexpected happened.

"I think, constable, there will be no need to trouble you. I will see the lady home," said the erring Betham in a masterful way.

The policeman hesitated, looked for information towards Mrs. Cranley, and looked for a moment in vain. Then she spoke coldly.

"I don't think I need trouble you."

"It is all right, constable." He paid no heed to her remark. "Come, Katherine."

He had, I saw, grasped the nettle boldly, under the spur, I suppose, of sheer desperation. I was glad, for I had been sorry for the rogue ever since his ignominious discovery under the table. Besides, speaking for myself, I should have tired in an hour of Miss Nelly's giggle.

Mrs. Cranley moved away, leaving us with a cool bow. I verily believe that she attributed all her misfortunes, including the delinquencies of Betham, to us. They disappeared into the night down the steps, shepherded by the heavy-footed officer of the force; and I think I even saw Master Jack, greatly daring, take possession of her arm. Women are forgiving. I hoped, as I too parted with my involuntary host, that she would find the right street this time. I never knew if they did.