At last a faint recollection of our rather precarious position began to intrude itself into my mind. "I hate to stop kissing you, Christine," I said, "but would you mind helping me load my gun? I don't believe I can manage it with one hand." She released herself from my embrace, and stood there like some lovely sea Naiad, her breast rising and falling and her lips slightly parted. "Where is it--where do you keep it?" she asked. I nodded towards a leather case which was standing up on end in the opposite corner. "That's it," I said. "Do you think you can put it together and shove in a couple of cartridges? I want to be ready for Manning in case he comes back." She started towards it, and for the first time the gaping aperture in the fireplace suddenly attracted her attention. "Yes," I said, "they got the diamonds all right. Your uncle went off hugging them in a bag. I should feel quite pleased about it if I only thought he would be allowed to keep them." Christine stepped forward to the case, and, laying it on the floor, began to unfasten the straps. In spite of her agitation there was a promptness and efficiency about all her proceedings which filled me with admiration. "Why were you alone here?" she asked, as she snapped the barrels into their place. "Has anything happened to your naval friend?" "Something must have happened to him," I replied, "but goodness knows what. He and Campbell, the detective, ought to have been back by eight-thirty. They may turn up any moment now, and----" Christine rose hastily, holding the loaded gun in her hand. A delightful little tinge of colour had suddenly crept into her face. "They mustn't find me like this," she faltered. "Could you lend me a coat or something?" She gazed desperately round the room, as though in search of some likely garment. "My entire wardrobe is at your service," I assured her. "You shall come upstairs and take your choice." I paused. "All the same," I added regretfully, "I shall never make you look as nice as you do now." She blushed again, and, moving impulsively towards her, I once more slipped my arm round her waist. "My own darling," I exclaimed, "you must be simply frozen to death; and your poor little feet----" "No, no," she protested, "I'm quite all right, really I am. It's your shoulder we've got to think about." "Oh, bother my shoulder!" I objected. "It only wants a little support of some sort. A scarf or a handkerchief or any old thing will do. I'll come upstairs with you, and you can fix it for me while I'm routing you out some clothes." I tried to relieve her of the gun, but with a shake of her head she insisted upon carrying it, and side by side we mounted the staircase which led to my own bedroom. There was a box of matches upon the dressing-table, and, having leaned her weapon carefully against the wall, Christine proceeded to light the candles.