Ross did not relish the glimpse he had of his reflection in the mirror. That snug-fitting jacket with a belt in the back, those breeches, those puttees—he did not like them. Worst of all, Eddy’s collar would not meet round his neck, and he had fastened it with a safety pin. As he took up the peaked cap and followed the cheerful youth, he felt, not like an accomplice in a tragedy, but like a very complete fool—and that did not please him. They crossed the lawn to the house, went in at the back door, and entered the kitchen. There he sat down to breakfast with the cook, the housemaid, the laundress, and Eddy. The kitchen was warm and clean, and neat as a new pin; very agreeable in the morning sunshine. The breakfast was good, and he was very hungry, and ate with a healthy appetite. But, except for a civil good morning, he did not say one word. For he was listening. He was waiting, in an unpleasant state of tension, for something which would shatter this comfortable serenity. It must come. It was not possible that the figure under the sofa should remain undiscovered, that life should progress as if nothing at all had happened. Amy had said this was the “last day.” Nothing interrupted the breakfast, though; and, when he had finished, he went back to the garage, to look over the sedan he was to drive. It was a good car, and in perfect condition; nothing for him to do there. He lit a cigarette, and stood talking to Eddy for a time. Eddy’s theme was Mr. Solway, Miss Amy’s long-suffering stepfather. “He’s the best man Gawd ever made,” said Eddy, seriously. “My father was coachman to him for eighteen years, and when he passed out, Mr. Solway, he kept me here. He seen that I got a good education and all. I wanted this here shover’s job, but he said nothing doing. He said I’d ought to get a job with a future. I’m down in the telephone comp’ny now—repair man. He lets me live here for nothing—just for doing a few odd jobs. He’s a prince!” He stamped out his cigarette with his heel. “And he has a hell of a life!” he added. “How?” asked Ross, thirsting for any sort of information about this household. “Her,” said Eddy. “Remember, I’m not saying nothing against Miss Amy. I’ve known her all my life. But, I’ve done things for that girl I wouldn’t have done for my own mother.” He paused. “I done things for her I wish to Gawd I hadn’t done,” he said, and fell silent. Ross was silent, too. He remembered how Eddy had closed the door of the housekeeper’s room. He remembered how very anxious Eddy had been to keep him shut up in the garage all night. And he remembered that Eddy carried a revolver. Why should he imagine that Amy Solway would do for herself any unpleasing task, when apparently she found it so easy to make others do things for her? This boy admitted he had done things for her which he wished “to Gawd” he hadn’t.