She turned the handle of the door; it was unlocked, and it opened. Her first thought was that perhaps one of the dogs had been shut in by mistake. As she stepped down on to the tessellated pavement into the darkness she experienced a sudden little throb of fear. For the thought came that perhaps one of the escaped convicts had made his way into the conservatory and was hiding there. The fear went as quickly as it came. Her eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, saw dimly outlined the delicate fronds of the ferns and the graceful palms and overhead the green of the clambering vine. The air was heavy with the warm and subtle odour of forced growth. She made her way to the door leading into the garden, and found it locked and bolted. So no one could have possibly entered that way. She gave a whistle and snapped her fingers, still thinking that one of the dogs might be there. There was no response. She was turning away when her foot struck a portion of broken pot. Stooping down she saw that a large pile of them had been overturned, and the majority lay in fragments on the ground, behind them a tin bucket from which water was still trickling. She gave a little laugh—it seemed so mysterious. And then her brow puckered in a frown.... Had some one been listening and spying on them? The idea was ridiculous, and yet—the bucket, obviously half full of water, and the pile of pots could not have fallen there on their own account. It was just possible that a large rat—— She stooped down to peer under the shelf. As she did so she was conscious of footsteps on the gravel outside, and at the same moment a brighter light shone through the door leading into the drawing-room. A servant had brought in the lamp. Then she heard Jim’s voice, obviously speaking to one of the warders from the prison. The ferns and the drooping tendrils of plants and a bank of moss blocked her view underneath the shelf; the light from the drawing-room fell at the wrong angle. Bending lower she brushed aside a clump of ferns. And she saw, pressed tightly against the wall, the outline of a foot and leg. Some one was hiding there. The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers. One of the escaped convicts! She caught her breath, and drawing back stood upright, uncertain for the moment what to do. The door was bolted on the inside, and with Jim and the warders a few feet away in the drawing-room he was trapped. There was no escape. She hesitated a moment, not in the least alarmed, only surprised and a little overwhelmed by her discovery. She knew that the moorlands must be alive with men searching; already, probably, the outbuildings and the houses were being ransacked—and here the convict lay, at her feet. The next thought was that he must have heard her enter and knew that she had discovered him. She wondered why he had not attacked her and tried to bolt. "Marjorie—where are you?"