"It is--it is Mr. Pless," she whispered in a panic. "I recognise his tread. As if I could ever forget it! Oh, how I hate him! He--" "Don't stop here to tell me about it," I cut in sharply. "Make haste! Get up to your rooms and lock yourself in. I'll--I'll stop him. How the deuce did he get into this side of the--" "Through the dungeons. There is a passage," she, whispered, and then she was gone, flying noiselessly up the narrow stairway. Assuming a nonchalance I certainly did not feel, I descended the stairs. We met in the broad hallway below. Mr. Pless approached slowly, evidently having checked his speed on hearing my footsteps on the stairs. "Hello," I said agreeably. "How did you get in?" He surveyed me coolly. "I know the castle from top to bottom, Mr. Smart. To be perfectly frank with you, I tried the secret panel in your study but found the opposite door blocked. You have no objection, I trust, to my looking over the castle? It is like home to me." My plan was to detain him in conversation until she had time to secrete herself on the upper floor. Somehow I anticipated the banging of a door, and it came a moment later--not loud but very convicting, just the same. He glanced at me curiously. "Then how _did_ you get in?" I repeated, cringing perceptibly in response to the slam of the distant door. "By the same means, I daresay, that you employ," said he. For a moment I was confounded. Then my wits came to the rescue. "I see. Through the dungeon. You _do_ know the castle well, Mr. Pless." "It is a cobwebby, unlovely passage," said he, brushing the dirt and cobwebs from his trousers. My own appearance was conspicuously immaculate, but I brushed in unison, just the same. "Grewsome," said I. He was regarding me with a curious smile in his eyes, a pleasantly bantering smile that had but one meaning. Casting an eye upwards, he allowed his smile to spread. "Perhaps you'd rather I didn't disturb Mrs.-- Mrs.--" "Britton," said I. "My valet's wife. I don't believe you will disturb her. She's on the top floor, I think." He still smiled. "A little remote from Britton, isn't she?" I think I glared. What right had he to meddle in Britton's affairs? "I am afraid your fancy draws a rather long bow, Mr. Pless," said I, coldly. He was at once apologetic. "If I offend, Mr. Smart, pray forgive me. You are quite justified in rebuking me. Shall we return to our own ladies?" Nothing could have been more adroit than the way he accused me in that concluding sentence. It was the quintessence of irony.