audrey and miss ingate were writing letters to paris. jane foley had gone forth again to a committee meeting, which was understood to be closely connected with a great liberal demonstration shortly to be held in a midland fortress of liberalism. miss nickall, in accordance with medical instructions, had been put to bed. susan foley was in the basement, either clearing up tea or preparing supper.

miss ingate, putting her pen between her teeth and looking up from a blotting-pad, said to audrey across the table:

“are you writing to musa?”

“certainly not!” said audrey, with fire. “why should i write to musa?” she added: “but you can write to him, if you like.”

“oh! can i?” observed miss ingate, grinning.

audrey knew of no reason why she should blush before miss ingate, yet she began to blush. she resolved not to blush; she put all her individual force into the enterprise of resisting the tide of blood to her cheeks, but the tide absolutely ignored her, as the tide of ocean might have ignored her.

she rose from the table, and, going into a corner, fidgeted with the electric switches, turning certain additional lights off and on.

“all right,” said miss ingate; “i’ll write to him. i’m sure he’ll expect something. have you finished your letters?”

“yes.”

“well, what’s this one on the table, then?”

“i shan’t go on with that one.”

“any message for musa?”

“you might tell him,” said audrey, carefully examining the drawn curtains of the window, “that i happened to meet a french concert agent this morning who was very interested in him.”

“did you?” cried miss ingate. “where?”

“it was when i was out with mr. foulger. the agent asked me whether i’d heard a man named musa play in paris. of course i said i had. he told me he meant to take him up and arrange a tour for him. so you might tell musa he ought to be prepared for anything.”

“wonders will never cease!” said miss ingate. “have i got enough stamps?”

“i don’t see anything wonderful in it,” audrey sharply replied. “lots of people in paris know he’s a great player, and those jew concert agents are always awfully keen—at least, so i’m told. well, perhaps, after all, you’d better not tell him. it might make him conceited.... now, look here, winnie, do hurry up, and let’s go out and post those letters. i can’t stand this huge house. i keep on imagining all the empty rooms in it. hurry up and come along.”

shortly afterwards miss ingate shouted downstairs into the earth:

“miss foley, we’re both just going out to post some letters.”

the faint reply came:

“supper at nine.”

at the farther corner of paget square they discovered a pillar-box standing solitary in the chill night among the vast and threatening architecture.

“do let’s go to a café,” suggested audrey.

“a café?”

“yes. i want to be jolly. i must break loose somewhere to-night. i can’t wait till to-morrow. i was feeling splendid till jane foley went. then the house began to get on my nerves, not to mention susan foley, with her supper at nine. do all people in london fix their meals hours and hours beforehand? i suppose they do. we used to at moze. but i’d forgotten. come along, winnie.”

“but there are no cafés in london.”

“there must be some cafés somewhere.”

“only public-houses and restaurants. of course, we could go to a teashop, but they’re all shut up now.”

“well, then, what do people do in london when they want to be jolly? i always thought london was a terrific town.”

“they never want to be jolly,” said miss ingate. “if they feel as if they couldn’t help being jolly, then they hire a private room somewhere and draw the blinds down.”

with no more words, audrey seized miss ingate by the arm and they walked off, out of the square and into empty and silent streets where highly disciplined gas-lamps kept strict watch over the deportment of colossal houses. in their rapid stroll they seemed to cover miles, but they could not escape from the labyrinth of tremendous and correct houses, which in squares and in terraces and in crescents displayed the everlasting characteristics of comfort, propriety and self-satisfaction. now and then a wayfarer passed them. now and then a taxicab sped through the avenues of darkness like a criminal pursued by the impalpable. now and then a red light flickered in a porch instead of a white one. but there was no surcease from the sinister spell until suddenly they emerged into a long, wide, illumined thoroughfare of shut shops that stretched to infinity on either hand. and a vermilion motor-bus meandered by, and this motor-bus was so sad, so inexpressibly wistful, in the solemn wilderness of the empty artery, that the two women fled from the strange scene and penetrated once more into the gigantic and fearful maze from which they had for an instant stood free. soon they were quite lost. till that day and night audrey had had a notion that miss ingate, though bizarre, did indeed know every street in london. the delusion was destroyed.

“never mind,” said miss ingate. “if we keep on we’re bound to come to a cabstand, and then we can take a taxi and go wherever we like—regent street, piccadilly, anywhere. that’s the convenience of london. as soon as you come to a cabstand you’re all right.”

and then, in the distance, audrey saw a man apparently tampering with a gate that led to an area.

“why,” she said excitedly, “that’s the house we’re staying in!”

“of course it isn’t!” said miss ingate. “this isn’t paget gardens, because there are houses on both sides of it and there’s a big wall on one side of paget gardens. i’m sure we’re at least two miles off our beds.”

“well, then, how is it nick’s hairbrushes are on the window-sill there, where she put them when she went to bed? i can see them quite plain. this is the side street—what’s-its-name? there’s the wall over there at the end. don’t you remember—it’s a corner house. this is the side of it.”

“i believe you’re right,” admitted miss ingate. “what can that man be doing there?”

they plainly saw him open the gate and disappear down the area steps.

“it’s a burglar,” said audrey. “this part must be a regular paradise for burglars.”

“more likely a detective,” miss ingate suggested.

audrey was thrilled.

“i do hope it is!” she murmured. “how heavenly! miss foley said she was being watched, didn’t she?”

“what had we better do?” miss ingate faltered.

“do, winnie?” audrey whispered, tugging at her arm. “we must run in at the front door and tell supper-at-nine-o’clock.”

they kept cautiously on the far side of the street until the end of it, when they crossed over, nipped into the dark porch of the house and rang the bell.

susan foley opened for them. there was no light in the hall.

“oh, is there?” said susan foley, very calmly, when she heard the news. “i think i know who it is. i’ve seen him hanging round my scullery door before. how did he climb over those railings?”

“he didn’t. he opened the gate.”

“well, i locked the gate myself this afternoon. so he’s got a key. i shall manage him all right. we’ll get the fire-extinguishers. there’s about a dozen of ’em, i should think, in this house. they’re rather heavy, but we can do it.”

turning on the light in the hall, she immediately lifted from its hook a red-coloured metal cone about twenty inches long and eight inches in diameter at the base. “in case of fire drive in knob by hard blow against floor, and let liquid play on flames,” she read the instructions on the side. “i know them things,” she said. “it spurts out like a fountain, and it’s a rather nasty chemistry sort of a fluid. i shall take one downstairs to the scullery, and the others we’ll have upstairs in the room over miss nickall’s. we can put ’em in the housemaid’s lift.... i shall open the scullery door and leave it a bit open like, and when he comes in i’ll be ready for him behind the door with this. if he thinks he can come spying after our janey like this——”

“but——” miss ingate began.

“you aren’t feeling very well, are ye, miss?” susan foley demanded, as she put two extinguishers into the housemaid’s lift. “better go and sit down in the parlour. you won’t be wanted. mrs. moncreiff and me can manage.”

“yes, we can!” agreed audrey enthusiastically. “run along, winnie.”

after about two minutes of hard labour susan ran away and brought a key to audrey.

“you sneak out,” she said, “and lock the gate on him. i lay he’ll want a new suit of clothes when i done with him!”

ecstatically, joyfully, audrey took the key and departed. miss ingate was sitting in the hall, staring about her like an undecided bird. audrey crept round into the side street. nobody was in sight. she could not see over the railings, but she could see between them into the abyss of the area. the man was there. she could distinguish his dark form against the inner wall. with every conspiratorial precaution, she pulled the gate to, inserted the key, and locked it.

a light went up in the scullery window, of which the blind was drawn. the man peeped at the sides of the blind. then the scullery door was opened. the man started. a piece of wood was thrown out on to the floor of the area, and the door swung outwards. then the light in the scullery was extinguished. the man waited a few moments. he had noticed that the door was not quite closed, and the interstice irresistibly fascinated him. he approached and put his hand against the door. it yielded. he entered. the next instant there was a bang and a cry, and a strong spray of white liquid appeared, in the middle of which was the man’s head. the door slammed and a bolt was shot. the man, spluttering, coughing, and swearing, rubbed his eyes and wiped water from his face with his hands. his hat was on the ground. at first he could not see at all, but presently he felt his way towards the steps and began to climb them. audrey ran off towards the corner. she could see and hear him shaking the gate and then trying to get a key into it. but as audrey had left her key in the other side of the lock, he failed in the attempt.

the next thing was that a window opened in the high wall-face of the house and an immense stream of liquid descended full on the man’s head. susan foley was at the window, but only the nozzle of the extinguisher could be seen. the man tried to climb over the railings; he did not succeed; they had been especially designed to prevent such feats. he ran down the steps. the shower faithfully followed him. in no corner of his hiding did the bountiful spray neglect him. as soon as one supply of liquid slackened another commenced. sometimes there were two at once. the man ran up the steps again and made another effort to reach the safety of the street. audrey could restrain herself no more. she came, palpitating with joyous vitality, towards the area gate with the innocent mien of a passer-by.

“whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed, stopping as if thunderstruck. but in the gloom her eyes were dancing fires. she was elated as she had never been.

the man only coughed.

“you oughtn’t to take shower-baths like this in the street,” she said, veiling the laughter in her voice. “it’s not allowed. but i suppose you’re doing it for a bet or something.”

the downpour ceased.

“here, miss,” said he, between coughs, “unlock this gate for me. here’s the key.”

“i shall do no such thing,” audrey replied. “i believe you’re a burglar. i shall fetch a policeman.”

and she turned back.

in the house, miss ingate was coming slowly down the stairs, a fire-extinguisher in her arms, like a red baby. she had a sardonic smile, but there was diffidence in it, which showed, perhaps, that it was directed within.

“i’ve saved one,” she said, pointing to an extinguisher, “in case there should be a fire in the night.”

a little later susan foley appeared at the door of the living-room.

“nine o’clock,” she announced calmly. “supper’s ready. we shan’t wait for jane.”

when jane foley arrived, a reconnaissance proved that the martyrised detective had contrived to get away.