“There’s nothing much to tell,” replied Agatha Girton coldly. “When Bittle first came, and was trying to get into Baycombe society, nobody returned his calls. Then he called on me and insisted on seeing me—I suppose because he thought the Manor had the most influence. He knew I was hard up—I don’t know how—and if I helped him he’d help me. It was my only way out. I agreed. You know he’s been here several times, but even then I couldn’t make anyone else take him up, although he didn’t seem at all uneducated and behaved perfectly. They’re all snobs here. . . . I had to go on borrowing from him, and he didn’t seem to mind, though he wasn’t getting much return for it. That’s all there is to it.” Patricia bit her lip. “I see. And even though you were using my money you didn’t condescend to tell me anything about it.” “What good would that have done?” “Wasn’t there anything——” “Nothing whatever,” said Miss Girton flatly. Patricia looked at her. “Then might I ask what you propose to do now you’ve come to the end of your resources?” Agatha Girton started another cigarette, and her hands were a little more unsteady. For a moment she failed to meet the girl’s eye, and stared fixedly out of the window. Then she looked at Patricia again. “You must leave that to me,” said Miss Girton, in a low inhuman voice that sent an involuntary tingle of dread crawling up Patricia’s spine. The girl rose and walked to another part of the room, to get away from the dull frightening eyes of Agatha Girton. At any other time she would have known better how to deal with the revelation that had been made to her, but now all her thoughts were with the Saint, and she could not concentrate on this new problem—and, if she had been able to, she would not have dared to tackle it, for fear of creating a situation which might prevent her carrying out his instructions if he failed to put in an appearance at the appointed time. Miss Girton was as strong as an ordinary man, and her temper that night was not to be trusted. Fifteen minutes still to go—three quarters of an hour since she left the Saint in the garden. “What’s the matter with you, child?” Agatha Girton’s rasping voice demanded sharply. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?” “To see the time.” She felt an absurd desire to smile. The retort would have tickled the Saint to death—she could visualise his impish delight—but Agatha Girton was less easily satisfied. “Why should you bother about the time?” “I’m not going to be badgered like this!” flamed Patricia unexpectedly. Her patience had worn very thin during the last quarter of an hour, and she knew that her anxiety was desperately near to driving her into indiscreet anger or a flood of tears for relief. She faced Miss Girton mutinously. “I’ll see you to-morrow,” she said, and left the room without another word.