Joey began upon the story of last night, but hadn't got far in it before Ingrid Latimer bore down upon the group. "Joey Graham, where are you? You are to go to Miss Conyngham at once. She told me so before she went." "Oh, bother! Just when you were telling us," Noreen broke out. "Cut along, and do hurry. I shall burst if I don't know the rest before First Lesson." Joey ran, arriving at Miss Conyngham's door in a decidedly breathless condition. Miss Conyngham was there with the Professor. He was speaking, but stopped as Joey came in. Joey had an idea that behind his pale, impassive face he was very angry. "Jocelyn," said Miss Conyngham gravely, "I want to ask you one or two questions by yourself." "Yes, Miss Conyngham," Joey answered wonderingly. "Have you gone outside at night? Think before you speak." That question did not need thinking about; Joey remembered that home-sick first night far too vividly to hesitate. "Yes, Miss Conyngham." "When?" "The first night I was here. I got out on the roof; didn't Matron tell you I spoilt my quilt? She jolly well takes care to go on telling me----" "Answer only my questions, please. You got out on the roof that first night. For what reason?" Joey could not say that Noreen, Syb, and Barbara had been horrid to her; she turned red and hesitated. The Professor glanced quickly at Miss Conyngham. "For what reason, Jocelyn?" "Oh, just I wanted to. Of course, I didn't know it was going to rain on my quilt." "Never mind the quilt. How often have you done it since?" "Never, Miss Conyngham." The Professor's black eyebrows lifted just a shade. Joey saw them and felt angry. Didn't he believe her? "You are quite sure of that, Jocelyn?" "Yes--honour." "Last night," Miss Conyngham said slowly, her eyes on Joey's face, "the Professor saw a girl, a tall, slim girl in a short frock, climb in at the window of the Laboratory sometime after you were all supposed to be in bed, but before the servants had locked up. He was not near enough to be quite sure about her--but this morning he found this handkerchief under the window." She held out the handkerchief--a small blue-bordered one, rather grubby. Joey's name, in Mums' marking-ink, stared up at her from one corner. It was certainly hers--it was, in fact, the handkerchief she had used last night; she remembered drying her hands with it after helping Barbara to carry the cauldron of boiling water across the stage. She had thrust it back into her sleeve, she remembered, when Noreen demanded she should tell the audience how many syllables the charade had. "Yes; it's mine all right--but I don't know how it got there," she said, staring at it. "Is there anything that you would like to say to me quite alone?" Miss Conyngham asked her. "You don't think I went to the Lab when I've said I didn't? I don't tell lies," Joey flared. "No, I believe your word of honour, Jocelyn," Miss Conyngham said, and she looked very straight at the Professor.