He was not asleep; he had made absolutely certain of this; he was wide awake, in his shirt sleeves, a baize apron covering his detestable suit, and he was polishing a cream, or it may have been a milk jug. That fact being firmly and inevitably established, he had some basis for reasoning and wonder. Chief cause for wonder was why Diana kept him in the house at all, believing him to be Double Dan; why she did not send immediately for the police and have him taken off to the nearest lock-up. He was devoutly thankful that she hadn’t! The second cause for wonder was what had happened to the remainder of the domestic staff? Eleanor he had not seen. There was no evidence that the cook was on the premises. Here again this fact provided him with a certain amount of satisfaction--but where were they? He was to learn. Diana made her appearance at the door of the pantry and he stared at her open-mouthed. Around her dainty waist was a broad leather belt, and, hanging by two straps, was a pistol holster, from the opening of which protruded the black handle of a Browning. “Do you know anything about potatoes?” she asked curtly. Gordon was ashamed to discover that he knew nothing about potatoes, except that they were vegetables. “Have you ever _peeled_ potatoes?” “I can’t remember,” he said. “When I was at school I think we used to peel potatoes----” “I’m not interested in what happened at Borstal--that is the name of the juvenile convict establishment, isn’t it? Put that milk-jug down and come into the kitchen.” He followed her meekly. There was no sign of the cook; Eleanor was invisible, and he learnt the reason. “I’ve sent my servants away for a week-end holiday,” she said. “I want no scandal attaching to my cousin’s name. I will not even have it known that this attempt has been made to swindle him. You understand that you will not try to leave the house?” “Yes,” he nodded. “Naturally, it is impossible that I should keep up day and night watching you,” she said, “so I have asked a friend to come in and help me.” A gleam of hope showed in Gordon’s eyes. “A detective,” she said impressively, “a Mr. Superbus--a name, I think with which you are well acquainted.” “That ... that ...?” spluttered Gordon indignantly. “That,” she said. A bell shrilled in the kitchen. She looked up at the indicator. The little disc which represented the front door was oscillating violently. “There are the potatoes,” she pointed to them. Gordon saluted. He was once in the army and it seemed natural to salute. No sooner had she gone than he decided upon his course of action. He was well enough acquainted with the house to know that there was a kitchen door and for this he made. It was locked; the key had been taken away; the windows of scullery and kitchen were heavily barred against burglars. Gordon returned to his potatoes with a sigh. He sighed easily in these hours.