“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t care about your husband. He’s probably a sensible man to whom one could explain things. Diana is so infernally sure of herself that you can’t argue with her.” Sitting on the edge of the table, she had lit a cigarette, and was sending blue, twisting rings of smoke into the air. She did not speak for a long time, and then only to break in upon Gordon’s gloomy thoughts. “My, I wish I was back home in my little apartment on a hundred ’n’ thoity-ninth Street!” she quavered. Mr. Selsbury was visibly surprised. He had never heard her say “thoity” before. Diana had come to feel unaccountably fagged. There was no adequate reason, for as a rule she was tireless; but the succession of demands upon her nervous energy was telling. She had to watch for tradesmen, she had to answer the door; a dozen times she was called from The Study to interview callers of all kinds who, obeying the large notice she had hand-printed and stuck on the kitchen door, “Please come to the main entrance: this door is not in use,” fed her with packages of grocery, baskets of meat, trays of fish. The amount of food that was consumed at No. 61 was appalling; she, at any rate, was appalled. Toward evening, when Dempsi was fidgetting for the dinner she had forgotten to order, a man called. He was poorly dressed, unsavoury of appearance. His thin, yellow face was unshaven and he carried his head slightly askew. The sight of Diana took him aback for a moment. “Good evening, miss,” he said, touching his cap. “I’ve called for the money.” “Whose money?” she asked, surprised. “Mine: I cleaned the windows yesterday.” Then she recalled him. Heloise had complained that the man was “nosing round The Study,” and expressed doubts about his honesty and bona fides. “Name of Stark, miss,” he said encouragingly. “I remember.” She went in search of her bag. When she came back, he was examining the lock of the door with professional interest. He was once a lock-maker, he offered the excuse for his curiosity. If Diana had not been wearing very soft-soled boots, the excuse would have been unnecessary. “Mr. Selsbury not in, miss?” as she counted the money in his hand. “No,” she said shortly. “Mr. Trenter in, miss?” “No.” Her eyes gleamed. “Will Mr. Selsbury be away long--I wanted to see him about a job?” “I don’t know when he will be back,” she said. “There are several men in the house: would you like to see one?” His expression changed. “No, thank you, miss.” She closed the door on him and wondered when the Watch Dog would arrive. There was still a lot of money in the safe. Those unaware of her obligations to Mr. Dempsi might imagine there was more.