Georgie gave a gasp of admiration. It was but a month or two ago that all Riseholme rejoiced when Abfou called her a snob, and now here they all were again (with the exception of Daisy) going to her for help and guidance in all those employments and excitements in which Riseholme revelled. Golf-competitions and bridge tournament, and duets, and real séances, and deliverance from Lady Ambermere, and above all, the excitement supplied by her personality. “You’re too wonderful,” he said, “indeed, I don’t know what we should do without you.” Lucia got up. “Well, I’ll scribble a little letter for you,” she said, “bringing in the price of George the Fourth’s gaiters in good condition. What shall we--I mean what shall you offer? I think you must be generous, Georgie, and not calculate the exact difference between the value of a pair of gaiters in good condition belonging to a king, and that of a pair of moth-eaten mittens belonging to a queen consort. Offer her the same; in fact, I think I should enclose a treasury note for ten shillings and six stamps. That will be more than generous, it will be munificent.” Lucia sat down at her writing-table, and after a few minutes’ thought, scribbled a couple of sides of notepaper in that neat handwriting that bore no resemblance to Vittoria’s. She read them through, and approved. “I think that will settle it,” she said. “If there is any further bother with the Vecchia, let me know. There’s one more thing, Georgie, and then let us have a little music. How do you think the fire broke out?” Georgie felt her penetrating eye was on him. She had not asked that question quite idly. He tried to answer it quite idly. “It’s most mysterious,” he said. “The oil stoves are always put out quite early in the evening, and lit again next morning. The boy says he put them out as usual.” Lucia’s eye was still on him. “Georgie, how do you think the fire broke out?” she repeated. This time Georgie felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Had Lucia the power of divination?... “I don’t know,” he said. “Have you any idea about it?” “Yes,” said Lucia. “And so have you. I’ll tell you my idea if you like. I saw our poor misguided Daisy coming out of the Museum close on seven o’clock last night.” “So did I,” said Georgie in a whisper. “Well, the oil stoves must have been put out long before that,” said Lucia. “Mustn’t they?” “Yes,” said Georgie. “Then how was it that there was a light coming out of the Museum windows? Not much of a light, but a little light, I saw it. What do you make of that?” “I don’t know,” said Georgie. Lucia held up a censuring finger. “Georgie, you must be very dull this morning,” she said. “What I make of it is that our poor Daisy lit the oil stoves again. And then probably in her fumbling way, she spilt some oil. Something of the sort, anyhow. In fact, I’m afraid Daisy burned down the Museum.” There was a terrible pause. “What are we to do?” said Georgie. Lucia laughed.