Caleb knitted his brows, and his granite-grey eyes gleamed. So, this was the woman’s game. Blackmail! This was why she wanted to talk to him alone. He would soon show her that he was not the kind of man to be frightened by blackmail. As a matter of fact, Caleb himself, who had only heard when he came of age about the shameful past of his Aunt Caterina, had been much less impressed by the awfulness of the family secret than his aunts had expected. “Yes, we did have a sister who went on the stage,” Aunt Thyrza tremulously admitted. “But that was many, many years ago, and she has long been dead.” Nancy was merciful to the aunts and forbore from pressing the point about the existence of good people on the stage. She was not merciful, however, to Caleb when tea came to an end and he showed no sign of adjourning with her to the library. “Are you sure you won’t have another piece of cake? Do have another piece of cake,” he begged, turning on the smile almost to its full extent. That he could not quite manage the full extent was due to the irritation this obtrusive young woman’s pertinacity was causing him. “No, indeed, I really couldn’t,” said Nancy, donning a bright little smile herself as a cyclist hopes his oil-lamp will avail to protect him against the dazzling onrushing motor-car. “Letizia, darling,” she added firmly. “I’m going to leave you here with Aunt Achsah and Aunt Thyrza for a little while. You will be good, won’t you?” “But I’d like to stroke the puss-cat.” “The cat?” Aunt Achsah exclaimed. “What cat?” “The puss-cat what that man was talking about to muvver,” Letizia explained. “The cat isn’t allowed in the drawing-room,” Aunt Thyrza said primly. “Why isn’t he? Does he make messes?” The two aunts shuddered. It was only too sadly evident that the stage had already corrupted even this four-year-old child. “Cats live in kitchens,” Aunt Achsah laid down dogmatically. “Well, can I go to the kitchen, muvver?” Letizia asked. “Because I would like to see the puss-cat. I fink puss-cats are much, _much_ nicer than aunts.” “No, darling, I want you to stay here,” and with this Nancy hurried out of the room, followed reluctantly by her brother-in-law. When they were back in the library, which, now that she had a clue to its status, Nancy perceived did contain half-a-dozen bound volumes of the _Illustrated London News_, three or four books of religious reading, and a decrepit Bradshaw, she came straight to the point. “Caleb, times are rather bad for theatrical business, and....”