In a corner of the room flush with the window was a small door, hidden behind a curtain. This led to the courtyard and was never used. As to its design, and what purpose it was intended to serve, only the builder and original owner of the house might testify. His name was Gugglewaite, he had been three times divorced, and was at the moment in heaven--or his well-edited epitaph lied. Gordon went upstairs for his pass-key, opened the door and stepped out into the “garden.” It was very dark and still, and the wet wind smelt sweet and fresh. Across the yard was a door that gave to a small side passage. The wall was high, but no obstacle to an active burglar. He shivered and went in again to his coffee and a returning serenity induced by the fire he had kindled and the comfort of his surroundings. He would have gladly given a thousand--ten thousand--to cancel his fool adventure; to remain here with ... well, with Diana. He told himself this with a certain defiance as though one half of a dual personality were challenging the other. Diana was really a dear. He wished he had been a little more loyal to her and had talked less about Dempsi ... a boy and girl affair and perfectly understandable. On Dempsi, his identity, his appearance, he mused till the light began to show in a ghostly fashion behind the painted window. There was no thrill in the secrecy, the plotting, the wile within wile. Gordon smelt the meanness of it, and sometimes he quavered. It made matters a thousand times worse that Diana was so sweet about everything. It had occurred to him that he would have to depend upon her to deal with Mr. Tilmet when he called. Nobody else could possibly cope with that elusive gentleman. “Surely,” she said without hesitation. “Have you the receipt ready and the final contract? It isn’t worth paper unless it has been drawn up by an American notary. Auntie bought an oil well in Texas and she had to find an American attorney before the contract could be made.” “And she was swindled, of course?” said Gordon. “All these oil properties are swindles.” “She made seventy thousand dollars out of the deal,” said Diana. “Auntie had an irresistible attraction for bargain money. The bills are in the safe?” “With the contract and the receipt. Really, Diana, you’re almost a business woman!” “Your patronage is offensive, but I feel sure that you mean well,” said Diana without heat. “Let me see that money.” He opened the safe and she counted it, bill by bill, before she snapped the door close and spun the handle. “Good,” she said. “I will have a spring clean whilst you are away. I have sent for a man to clean the windows of The Study. They are in a shocking state. And, Gordon, with Trenter and you away, I shall need extra help. I will have a man and his wife here. There is an attic room where they can sleep: is that in order?” Diana was brisk, business-like, imposingly capable. Gordon realised that she was unconsciously ramming home her indispensability.