It was about five o'clock when I heard Jane approaching. I knew it was Jane, because she always wears tight shoes, and limps when unobserved. Although having the reputation of the smallest foot of any girl in our set in the city, I prefer comfort and ease, unhampered by heals--French or otherwise. No man will ever marry a girl because she wears a small shoe, and catches her heals in holes in the boardwalk, and has to soak her feet at night before she can sleep. However---- Jane came on, and found me crouched on the doorstep, in a lowly attitude, and holding my finger to my lips. She stopped and stared at me. "Hello," she said. "What do you think you are? A statue?" "Hush, Jane," I said, in a low tone. "I can only ask you to be quiet and speak in whispers. I cannot give the reason." "Good heavens!" she whispered. "What has happened, Bab?" "It is happening now, but I cannot explain." "WHAT is happening?" "Jane," I whispered, earnestly, "you have known me a long time and I have always been trustworthy, have I not?" She nodded. She is never exactly pretty, and now she had opened her mouth and forgot to close it. "Then ask no questions. Trust me, as I am trusting you." It seemed to me that Mr. Beecher threw his pen at the door, and began to pace the bath-house. Owing of course to his being in his bare feet, I was not certain. Jane heard something, too, for she clutched my arm. "Bab," she said, in intense tones, "if you don't explain I shall lose my mind. I feel now that I am going to shriek." She looked at me searchingly. "Somebody is a prisoner. That's all." It was the truth, was it not? And was there any reasons for Jane Raleigh to jump to conclusions as she did, and even to repeat later in public that I had told her that my lover had come for me, and that father had locked him up to prevent my running away with him, immuring him in the Patten's bath-house? Certainly not. Just then I saw the boatman coming who looks after our motor boat, and I tiptoed to him and asked him to go away, and not to come back unless he had quieter boats and would not whistle. He acted very ugly about it, I must say, but he went. When I came back, Jane was sitting thinking, with her forehead all puckered. "What I don't understand, Bab," she said, "is, why no noise?" "Because he is writing," I explained. "Although his clothing has been taken away, he is writing. I don't think I told you, Jane, but that is his business. He is a writer. And if I tell you his name you will faint with surprise." She looked at me searchingly. "Locked up--and writing, and his clothing gone! What's he writing, Bab? His will?" "He is doing his duty to the end, Jane," I said softly. "He is writing the last act of a play. The company is rehearsing the first two acts, and he has to get this one ready, though the heavens fall." But to my surprise, she got up and said to me, in a firm voice: