“_H'sh!_ Stop that laughing,” commanded the voice. “He'll hear you. Be _quiet_!” The key turned in the lock, and Mr. Travers, stepping forth, clapped his hand over his mouth and endeavoured to obey. Mrs. Waters, stepping back with the gun ready, scrutinized him closely. “Come on to the landing,” said Mr. Travers, eagerly. “We don't want anybody else to hear. Fire into this.” He snatched a patchwork rug from the floor and stuck it up against the balusters. “You stay here,” said Mrs. Waters. He nodded. She pointed the gun at the hearth-rug, the walls shook with the explosion, and, with a shriek that set Mr. Travers's teeth on edge, she rushed downstairs and, drawing back the bolts of the back door, tottered outside and into the arms of the agitated boatswain. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried. “What—what's the matter?” gasped the boatswain. The widow struggled in his arms. “A burglar,” she said, in a tense whisper. “But it's all right; I've killed him.” “Kill—” stuttered the other. “Kill——_Killed him_?” Mrs. Waters nodded and released herself, “First shot,” she said, with a satisfied air. The boatswain wrung his hands. “Good heavens!” he said, moving slowly towards the door. “Poor fellow!” “Come back,” said the widow, tugging at his coat. “I was—was going to see—whether I could do anything for 'im,” quavered the boatswain. “Poor fellow!” “You stay where you are,” commanded Mrs. Waters. “I don't want any witnesses. I don't want this house to have a bad name. I'm going to keep it quiet.” “Quiet?” said the shaking boatswain. “How?” “First thing to do,” said the widow, thoughtfully, “is to get rid of the body. I'll bury him in the garden, I think. There's a very good bit of ground behind those potatoes. You'll find the spade in the tool-house.” The horrified Mr. Benn stood stock-still regarding her. “While you're digging the grave,” continued Mrs. Waters, calmly, “I'll go in and clean up the mess.” The boatswain reeled and then fumbled with trembling fingers at his collar. Like a man in a dream he stood watching as she ran to the tool-house and returned with a spade and pick; like a man in a dream he followed her on to the garden. “Be careful,” she said, sharply; “you're treading down my potatoes.” The boatswain stopped dead and stared at her. Apparently unconscious of his gaze, she began to pace out the measurements and then, placing the tools in his hands, urged him to lose no time. “I'll bring him down when you're gone,” she said, looking towards the house. The boatswain wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand. “How are you going to get it downstairs?” he breathed. “Drag it,” said Mrs. Waters, briefly. “Suppose he isn't dead?” said the boatswain, with a gleam of hope. “Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Waters. “Do you think I don't know? Now, don't waste time talking; and mind you dig it deep. I'll put a few cabbages on top afterwards—I've got more than I want.”