Something—someone was almost touching her. She could hear his breathing. She was right under his hand. And she was trapped. Her knee was against a chair, and she could not move. Any second now . . . The form sheered off. Whose-ever it was, he had missed her by a hair’s breadth. Trembling all over, Susan began to edge away from the chair. . . . A piercing scream of agony shattered the silence—the sort of scream which is associated with torture—the scream of a human being under the pain of hell. Susan’s heart stood still. The scream slid into a flurry of howled oaths, the nature of which suggested that Labotte was out of action. If he was, there was a doorway clear. . . . Susan was there in a flash. She and Kilmuir passed out together. “Steady,” he said quietly. “Now turn round, get behind me and appear to be looking in. Then they won’t connect us with this little play.” As he parted the curtains, the lights in the room went up, and four or five guests and servants appeared in the other doorway. Labotte was sitting on the parquet, rocking himself to and fro, nursing his bridle-hand and addressing ‘the Duke of Culloden,’ who was leaning against a sofa convulsed with laughter. “I tell you I ’af not see why jus’ begozz you are duke that ’as nod give you the raighd to starm’ to my ’and laike there was fifdy tousan’ dun of storns in your boode an’ then you gannot bray bardon bud mus’ laugh laike you gry an’ make that you ’af nod starm’ to no one’s ’and. I suppose it is I wot ’af march oll over my own ’and—yess! Bah! I make myself to be your frien’, I let you to call me Zaddle-zorp an’ show you the rorpes of these place, an’ then you starm’ to my ’and and when I say, ‘See ’ow you ’af done,’ then there was a gread forny jork that I am ’urt. I tell you I do not gare ooze duke you are . . .” By one consent Miss Crail and Nicholas turned and made their way out of the press. “So perish all traitors,” said the latter. “As the actual executioner, my use of that pious expression is traditionally becoming.” Susan stared. “You?” Kilmuir nodded. “I was there all the time,” he said. “None of you saw me. I was wondering where I came in, when the lights went out. I happen to be able to see rather well in the dark, and just as I passed you I saw our little red-back making for where you stood on his hands and knees. . . . I admit I’m not very proud of myself. I should have preferred to thrash him in daylight and a public place, but you—you had to be considered. . . . I was going to harry the—er—Duke of Culloden also, but Saddle-soap made such a noise that I hadn’t time. That he should credit his accomplice with the assault is sheer good fortune. I never dreamed of such an elegant _dénouement_.” He led the way to a closet at the end of the _salon gris_. This was deserted. “And now, why did you rush upon your fate three days ago? Why did you try to discredit yourself in my eyes? We’d only just made friends.” “Did I succeed?”