“No. Fanny go get scissors. You not good, daddie. You call brother beast.” And, with a beautiful smile through which nothing could be even divined of the empty mind it clothed, she slipped through the door and disappeared up the stairs, laughing and singing, “Cho-co-late biscuits!” The old man moaned. His head dropped and wagged. His mouth spat toads in the shape of curses at Perce. Perce moved away. His face was slate-grey. He was limp, and looked as self-controlled as a rabbit about to be slaughtered. He peered into the passage, then passed out, and the old man heard his step ascending the stair. He caught the lazy hum of voices busy in talk. He heard two words, in syrupy accents, which he understood: _Pao-pei!_ He heard Fanny’s baby accents. “Can’t find scissors! Someone’s taken scissors. Can’t find candle, neether. Someone’s taken matches, too.” He heard Perce’s voice. “Wait half-a-jiff, Fan. Can’t yeh find the matches? ’Ere ... Fan ... ’ere. Listen. Something nice for yeh, if yeh’ll be a good girl. ’Ere ... lots of choc’late biscuits. Look ... no; can’t ’ave them yet. In a minute or two. ’Ere, don’t be silly.... No.... Just.... Go on.... No, it isn’t....” A door clicked, and swiftly Perce descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen. He was breathing rapidly. “What you go up for?” whined Old Joe. “Eh? Oh, I know there’s something ... something going to ’appen. I can feel it.” Perce swaggered. “You blasted invalids are alwis feeling and seeing things that ain’t there. You’ll see blue monkeys next.” Old Joe rocked himself. From above there came a second click; moving feet. There was a moment’s silence, then, shattering it, a soft cry, a long-drawn whoosh and a muffled scream. The scream was but a single note, and thereafter came only nondescript low noises. The old man mouthed and gibbered. He heaved himself idiotically in his chair. “Oh, my Gawd. If I’d a-got my strength. Owh. What are they doing to ’er? What you up to, yeh bleeding swine! Owh. If Gawd don’t strike you dead for this. Owh ... hark at ’er ... my lamb ... my.... O Lord Jesus Christ, save ’er! “Oh, Perce, dear ... go up and stop ’em. Stop their devils’ work. Fanny! Fanny! What they doing to yeh?” The great white cheeks sagged in many creases as he fought for movement. The heavy arms on each side of the chair dangled like puppets. “Oh, Gawd, if I could find out what they was doing. Oh, if I’d a-got my strength!” “Oh, shut yeh blasted mag, for Christ’s sake!” Perce dropped into a chair and sat scared and pensive. Three long gasps came down the stairway—rhythmic, regular, punctuated by a dull noise. “Perce! Oh, if I’d a-got my strength ... oh, I’d squeeze yer throat. Owh. I could a-killed you wiv one ’and. Kill ’im, Gawd! Kill ’im! Strike the bleeder dead! Or give me back me arms. O-o-wh!”