Her impulse had been to find Kilmuir at once and tell him the truth. Not all of it, of course, but enough to make him her friend—a present help in her trouble. But Susan Crail was no fool. Life was a stern creditor. If she invoked the sympathy of the man she loved, touched his strong hand, called up the kindness of his steady brown eyes—these things would have to be paid for in blood and tears. As it was, even if Labotte vanished, she would still have to try to forget. . . . Nicholas Kilmuir. There was a scourge waiting. Was it worth her while, for the sake of a little relief, deliberately to load the cords? Wasn’t it better to—— “No,” said Susan suddenly. “It isn’t better. What is better is to take what you can get. I can’t take him, because somebody else has done that. But I can be with him and see him and hear his blessed voice. Damn what the future holds. The present’s the thing.” She rose and stepped out of the shadow—almost into the arms of ‘the Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte. The latter bowed low. “Good evening, Miss Susan Crail.” “Good evening.” ‘His Grace’ stared. Then— “Oh, ’elp,” he said. “Any more for the throne-room?” He bowed grotesquely. “Good sunset, sweeting. What doth the night-light say?” “Too late,” said Susan pleasantly. “I’ve a letter to write.” “Splendid,” said ‘the Duke.’ “We’ll tell you what to say, shall I?” He linked her arm in his and turned to Labotte. “If I’m not back in half an hour, Saddle-soap——” Labotte raised his eyebrows. “I do nod think,” he announced, “you will be zo long.” Suddenly his eyes gleamed. “But there,” he added, “I do nod know. Perhaps . . . I tell you, when she was naize, she was vairy, vairy naize.” He closed his eyes and vented a happy sigh. Susan felt rather sick. “O-o-oh,” said ‘the Duke,’ approaching a face which appeared to have been recently buttered. “And how does he know?” “I don’t think he does,” said Susan, seeking to disengage herself. “Please let me go.” “And why was she ‘vairy naize’?” continued ‘the Duke,’ detaining her. “You’d better ask him,” said Susan, trying to pass it off. “He seems to know. And now let me go, please. I’ve got this letter to write.” ‘His Grace’ skipped to a doorway and spread out his arms. “Block the other one, Saddle-soap: and we’ll give her a run,” he cried, and, with that, he switched off the lights. Then curtain rings rasped, and, except for the rosiness of a dying fire, the room was black. Susan stood paralysed. She was going to be kissed, of course. That went without saying. She wondered dully whether she was going to be scratched. Labotte. . . . Perhaps he would only pinch her. With a shock she realized that she had better move. To stay where she was would be fatal. If she could change her position . . . With a beating heart, she began to steal to one side, straining her ears. Suddenly she stood still as death.