“Don’t let him escape,” he cautioned. “He’s as artful as a monkey! You ought to hear what he did to me last night!” “Certainly not.” Bobbie was ready to promise that he would bring his brother to execution. Still Mr. Superbus lingered. Diana had gone out, leaving instructions which were to be carried out to the letter. Julius was a stickler for duty. “And don’t let him telephone.” Even this Bobbie promised, and Julius took a reluctant leave. “I’ll be on hand if he’s troublesome,” he said from the doorway. “Now, no larks, uncle!” “Uncle” mutely promised. The portal closed, Bobbie went softly and listened. For a few seconds he waited, and then jerked open the door. Julius was stooping to lace his shoes. A less inquisitive man might have been suspected of having his ear to the keyhole. “Want me?” he asked with a blameless smile. “No,” said Bobbie, so emphatically that Mr. Superbus could not mistake his meaning. The door closed again. “Gordon, what on earth----?” Gordon threw out despairing arms. “Bobbie, I’m in a hell of a mess,” he said, his tone one of anguish beyond remedy. “What has happened--what does it mean?” asked the bewildered Bobbie. “Why didn’t you get in touch with me before?” Gordon’s gesture cut short his questioning. “I tried to telephone you, but I couldn’t get on, and ever since, that infernal jackass has been keeping guard over the instrument. Is it a crime to kill an amateur detective? I’ve forgotten. I know that in some circumstances murder is justifiable.” “What has happened?” asked Bobbie again. For fully three minutes Gordon paced the room, so agitated that he could not steady his voice. His relief at Bobbie’s arrival had brought the inevitable reaction. Presently he grew calmer. “When I got to the station to meet--you know----” “Heloise?” Gordon winced. He didn’t want to talk about Heloise. The very sound of her name gave him a little pain. “I found her in a state of terrible fear. You can imagine how I felt when she told me that her husband was watching the barriers and thirsting for my blood! She wanted me to go on and await her, but of course I bolted back; went to the hotel to change, and found that the valet who had my bag and had taken it to the station parcels office, was away for the week-end. I came home, and she must have followed.” “Heloise?” Gordon swallowed something. “Say ‘she’ or ‘her,’” he begged. “I feel better about her when she’s a pronoun!” “She must have followed?” repeated Bobbie in horror. “Then she _is_ here! She--she isn’t Aunt Lizzie by any chance?” “She _is_ Aunt Lizzie! Aunt Lizzie! Oh, Bobbie, isn’t this the most awful thing that ever happened? What am I going to do? I can’t leave the house----” “But why?” asked Bobbie, thunderstruck. No man stood less in need of cross-examination at that moment than Gordon. He had hopes that Bobbie, with his curious insight into human affairs, would accept the situation without demanding analysis.