When, and not until, it was firmly anchored she would slowly start her eye in review around the other objects of her apartment. If the wash-stand had tendency to polka with the bed, or the wardrobe unnaturally to stretch up its head through the ceiling, Mrs. Major would march her gaze steadily back to the bureau, there to take fresh strength and start again. When all was orderly--then Old Tom. Masterly in all things, this woman was most masterly in her cups. VII. Into Mr. Marrapit's dreams there came a whistle. He pushed at Sleep; she crooned to him and he snuggled against her. Upon his brain there rapped a harsh _Wow_! He wriggled from his bedfellow; she put an arm about him, drew him to her. Now there succeeded a steady wash of sound--rising, falling, murmuring persistent against his senses. He turned his back upon Sleep. She crooned; he wriggled from her. Seductively she followed; he kicked a leg and jarred her, threw an arm and hurt her. Disgusted, she slipped from bed and left him, leaving a chilly space where she had warmly lain. Mr. Marrapit shivered; felt for Sleep; found her gone; with a start sat upright. The breakwater gone, that wash of sound which had lapped around his senses rushed in upon them. Lingering traces of the touch of Sleep still offered resistance--a droning hum. The wash surged over, poured about him--_VOICES_! Mr. Marrapit violently cleared his throat. The voices continued. Violently again. They still continued. Tremendously a third time. They yet continued. From this he argued that they could not be very close to his door. Intently he listened, then located them--they came from the garden. He felt for the bell-push that carried to Mr. Fletcher's room; put his thumb upon it; steadily pressed. Sleep toyed no tricks in Mr. Fletcher's bed. Like some wanton mistress discovered in the very act of betrayal, she at the first tearing clamour of the electric bell bounded from the sheets, scuttled from the room. “Rapine!” cried Mr. Fletcher; plunged his head beneath the bedclothes and wrestled in prayer. The strident gong faltered not nor failed. Steady and penetrating it dinned its hideous call. Mr. Fletcher waited for screams. None came. He pushed the sheet between his chattering teeth, listened for cudgelling and heavy falls. None came. That bell had single possession of the night. The possibility that only patrolling was required of him nerved him to draw from his concealment. He lit a candle; into trousers pushed his quivering legs; upon tottering limbs passed up the stairs to Mr. Marrapit's room. “Judas!” Mr. Marrapit greeted him. Mr. Fletcher sighed relief: “I thought it was rapine.” “You have betrayed your trust. You are Iscariot.” “I come when you rung.” “Silence. I have heard voices.” “God help us,” Mr. Fletcher piously groaned; the candle in his shaking hand showered wax. “Blasphemer! He will not help the craven. Gird yourself.” “I'll call Mr. George.”