“What does all this mean?” demanded Kathleen, angrily. “Has everybody gone daft? Eliza, ever since you came into the house, there has been nothing but turmoil. I wish you would explain. Why have you sent the policeman into the cellar?” “There's three dangerous counterfeiters down there, Miss,” said Eliza. “I want to tell you the truth about this, Miss Kathleen, before that American gets down here--he's bound to be here soon. He's the worst of the lot.” “Open that door at once!” said Kathleen, stamping her foot. “I don't know what on earth you mean by counterfeiters, but if there are any down there, let's have them up, and see what they have to say.” The dining-room bell rang, and Mary instinctively hurried upstairs. At the same moment Blair ran down, three steps at a time, and bounded into the kitchen. He started when he saw Eliza. “Are you all right, Miss Kent?” he asked, anxiously. “I've been so worried about you. Is that gas-man still here? I think I can smell gas escaping. Can I help in any way?” “What you smell is a burnt cottage pudding,” replied Kathleen. “There's a policeman in the cellar, I wish you'd call him up. I have a great mind to ask him to take Eliza in charge. I don't think she's quite right.” Blair looked at Eliza closely. “I agree with you, Miss Kathleen,” he said. “She looks like a bad egg to me--a devilled egg, in fact. Which is the cellar door, cook?” Eliza saw her chance. “Right here, sir,” she said, taking hold of the door knob. She swung the door open. “Looks very dark,” said Blair. “I can't quite see the step. Where is it?” Eliza, eager to add this last specimen to her anthology in the cellar, stepped forward to point out the stairway. With one lusty push Blair shoved her through the door, and banged it to. He turned the key in the lock and thrust it into his pocket. “Miss Kent,” he said, “I'm afraid you must think us all crazy. If you will only let me have five minutes' uninterrupted talk with you, I can explain these absurd misadventures. Please, won't you let me?” “To tell you the truth,” said Kathleen, “I'm hungry. I've had only a plate of soup, and that was--counterfeit. I think that mad woman intended it for the curate, for whom she had conceived a dislike.” “Let's go up and sit in the dining-room, and I can talk while you eat.” At that moment Mrs. Kent's voice sounded at the top of the stairs. “Kathleen, dear, is everything all right?” “Yes, Mother,” called Kathleen in the same silvery soprano that set Blair's heart dancing. “Your father wants Mr. Blair to come up to the drawing-room and talk to him. He wants to tell him about the Battle of Wolverhampton.” XIII