No face appeared; nothing but a voice—a woman’s, hard and impatient. “Yes. What is it? Who do you want?” Pape was returned to the quandary of the maid possibility. Before he could decide what to answer the suction of wind from the hall drew around the edge of the door a fluttery bit of black skirt. “I want you, Jane,” he hazarded. Curiosity, surprise or exasperation ruled her—perhaps a combination of the three. Her young-white face in its old-black bonnet followed the skirt around the door edge, high as his own and so close that her breath, warm and sweet as a summer zephyr off a clover field, blew upon his cheek. “_You_?” she gasped, as before, out under the trees. “Again,” he finished for her with the briefest of bows. She narrowed the crack and moved across it, evidently to protect the room from his inspection. Not exactly a “welcome to our happy home” was her next offering, although in her natural tones. “So you followed me home last night, after all! How dared you? What is the meaning of your espionage?” His courage was lit by the blaze of her look. “There’s a particular meaning to it that I hope you won’t find so unwelcome. I’ve whizzed hereward to inform you that a gang of grave-diggers are exercising their muscles ‘neath the shade of the sheltering poplars where you and Kicko were planting bones last evening.” He felt gratified at the importance of his news, as shown by its effect on her. Her lips paled as they parted. The pansy-black irises widened within the blue of her eyes in her concentrated stare. Lines lengthened her face more suitably to the poke of the bonnet that framed it. “Who—_who_?” she demanded, her voice scarcely more than a rasp. “That I didn’t linger to learn. I saw them as I was polkaing past upon my trusty steed just now. Thought you mightn’t know.” She turned her head and spoke as if to some one within the room. “Oh, what shall we do? If they’ve solved the cryptogram—if they find——” She checked other disclosures; again faced the volunteer messenger, now frowning. When no suggestion as to what they could do came from the person who would seem to be the other half of her “we,” Pape made cheerful offering: “The taxi-hack that conveyed me cross-town is ticking time down in the street. It is at your service, miss or madam, with or without yours truly.” She gave him a startled glance, whether for his mode of address or his offer, he could not be sure; then spent a moment in urgent thought. “_Would_ you wait for me a few minutes?” She all at once announced her decision. Without need of his answer, without a verbal thank-you or suggestion of apology, she closed the door in his face and, by way of insult to injury, turned the key inside. Seeing nothing better to do, Pape leisurely descended the stairs. The steps protested stridently as before, but more intelligibly now.