Philip straightened his back laboriously, his fair burden maintaining her balance by clinging to his hair with both hands. "This is a splendid adventure!" she whispered. "Rather!" gasped Philip, with tears in his eyes. "Now I am going to stand on your shoulders," explained Peggy. "Bend forward a little, with your hands against the wall. Keep your head well down, or I may tread on it." Two minutes after, the soles of the young lady's shoes removed themselves from Philip's shoulder-blades with a convulsive spring, and followed their owner in a harlequin dive through the open window. There was a dull thud on the floor inside, followed by a brief silence. Then there was the sound of some one moving in the dark, and presently a French window further along the wall swung open with a click, and Peggy, touzled but triumphant, dragged her guest into the house. The window closed, and a flood of electric light swept away the darkness. Philip looked round curiously. He had never been in a studio before. The side of the room at which they had entered was built out in the form of a penthouse, and was roofed with glass. In the middle of the floor stood a small platform, covered with a rug. On the platform stood a sofa, and on the sofa reclined an eerie figure, like a gigantic Dutch doll. Half-finished canvasses--prospective wolf-scarers, no doubt--leaned against the walls. In a corner lay an untidy heap of robes and draperies. Upon an easel close by the throne stood an almost completed picture. It represented an infant of improbably angelic aspect asleep in a cot, in company with two golliwogs, a mechanical monkey, and a teddy bear. "That," remarked Peggy professionally, "is a wolf-scarer. It's called 'Strange Bedfellows.' It's very pretty. It's nearly finished. This thing here is a model-throne. You can sleep on it to-night. Nobody will disturb you. Dad never comes here until after ten in the morning, and none of the maids are allowed in the studio at all. You will be quite warm. I'll get you some of these robes and things out of the corner. Ooh!" Philip, fascinated by his surroundings, had not yet had time to notice his hostess. Now he turned quickly. Miss Falconer was in a somewhat dishevelled condition. Her red tam-o'-shanter was white with plaster. Her frock was stained all down the front, and one of her stockings had been cut open right across the knee, displaying a crimson bruise which threatened to deepen into purple. "You have hurt yourself!" cried Philip in great concern.