"Oh, I can't promise anything. One must stand by one's friends. One simply must. But I'll take care Cousin Philip doesn't blame you." "If I'm no use, you know--I can't stay." "No use to Cousin Philip, you mean, in policing me?" said Helena, with a good-humoured laugh. "Well, we'll talk about it again to-morrow. Good-night--Lucy!" The sly gaiety of the voice was most disarming. "Good-night, Miss Pitstone." "No, that won't do. It's absurd! I never ask people to call me Helena, unless I like them. I certainly never expected--there, I'll be frank!--that I should want to ask you--the very first night too. But I do want you to. Please, Lucy, call me Helena. _Please_!" Mrs. Friend did as she was told. "Sleep well," said Helena from the door. "I hope the housemaid's put enough on your bed, and given you a hot water-bottle? If anything scares you in the night, wake me--that is, if you can!" She disappeared. Outside Mrs. Friend's door the old house was in darkness, save for a single light in the hall, which burnt all night. The hall was the feature of the house. A gallery ran round it supported by columns from below, and spaced by answering columns which carried the roof. The bedrooms ran round the hall, and opened into the gallery. The columns were of yellow marble brought from Italy, and faded blue curtains hung between them. Helena went cautiously to the balustrade, drew one of the blue curtains round her, and looked down into the hall. Was everybody gone to bed? No. There were movements in a distant room. Somebody coughed, and seemed to be walking about. But she couldn't hear any talking. If Cousin Philip were still up, he was alone.