I stumbled back to my room and locked the door. It was two hours before I had strength enough to get my aromatic ammonia bottle. V It seemed to me that I had hardly dropped asleep before the children were in the room, clamoring. “The goldfish are dead!” Harry said, standing soberly by the bed. “They are all dead with their stummicks turned up.” I sat up. My head ached violently. “They can’t be dead, old chap.” I was feeling about for my kimono, but I remembered that when I had found my way back to the nursery after my fright on the back stairs I had lain down in my uniform. I crawled out, hardly able to stand. “We gave them fresh water yesterday, and——” I had got to the aquarium. Harry was right. The little darting flames of pink and gold were still. They floated about, rolling gently as Freddie prodded them with a forefinger, dull eyed, pale bellies upturned. In his cage above the little parrot watched out of a crooked eye. I ran to the medicine closet in the bathroom. Freddie had a weakness for administering medicine. I had only just rescued the parrot from the result of his curiosity and a headache tablet the day before. “What did you give them?” I demanded. “Bread,” said Freddie stoutly. “Only bread?” “Dirty bread,” Harry put in. “I told him it was dirty.” “Where did you get it?” “On the roof of the porte-cochère!” Shade of Montessori! The rascals had been out on that sloping tin roof. It turned me rather sick to think of it. Accused, they admitted it frankly. “I unlocked the window,” Harry said, “and Freddie got the bread. It was out in the gutter. He slipped once.” “Almost went over and made a squash on the pavement,” added Freddie. “We gave the little fishes the bread for breakfast, and now they’re gone to God.” The bread had contained poison, of course. Even the two little snails that crawled over the sand in the aquarium were motionless. I sniffed the water. It had a slightly foreign odor. I did not recognize it. Panic seized me then. I wanted to get away and take the children with me. The situation was too hideous. But it was still early. I could only wait until the family roused. In the meantime, however, I made a nerve-racking excursion out on to the tin roof and down to the gutter. There was no more of the bread there. The porte-cochère was at the side of the house. As I stood balancing myself perilously on the edge, summoning my courage to climb back to the window above, I suddenly remembered the guard Mr. Patton had promised and glanced toward the square. The guard was still there. More than that, he was running across the street toward me. It was Mr. Patton himself. He brought up between the two houses with absolute fury in his face. “Go back!” he waved. “What are you doing out there anyhow? That roof’s as slippery as the devil!”