By the time her father had finished his supper she was trying, but in vain, to devise means for the prisoner's escape. The sergeant had opened the door of the room for the sake of fresh air, and it was impossible for anybody to come downstairs without being seen. The story of a sickly geranium in the back-yard left him unmoved. “I wouldn't get up for all the geraniums in the world,” he declared. “I'm just going to have one more pipe and then I'm off to bed. Running don't agree with me.” He went, despite his daughter's utmost efforts to prevent him, and she sat in silent consternation, listening to his heavy tread overhead. She heard the bed creak in noisy protest as he climbed in, and ten minutes later the lusty snoring of a healthy man of full habit resounded through the house. She went to bed herself at last, and, after lying awake for nearly a couple of hours, closed her eyes in order to think better. She awoke with the sun pouring in at the window and the sounds of vigorous brushing in the yard beneath. “I've nearly got it off,” said the sergeant, looking up. “It's destroying evidence in a sense, I suppose; but I can't go about with my uniform plastered with mud. I've had enough chaff about it as it is.” Miss Pilbeam stole to the door of the next room and peeped stealthily in. Not a sound came from the cupboard, and a horrible idea that the prisoner might have been suffocated set her trembling with apprehension. “H'sh!” she whispered. An eager but stifled “H'st!” came from the cup-board, and Miss Pilbeam, her fears allayed, stepped softly into the room. “He's downstairs brushing the mud off,” she said, in a low voice. “Who is?” said the skipper. “The fat policeman,” said the girl, in a hard voice, as she remembered her father's wrongs. “What's he doing it here for?” demanded the astonished skipper. “Because he lives here.” “Lodger?” queried the skipper, more astonished than before. “Father,” said Miss Pilbeam. A horrified groan from the cupboard fell like music on her ears. Then the smile forsook her lips, and she stood quivering with indignation as the groan gave way to suppressed but unmistakable laughter. “H'sh!” she said sharply, and with head erect sailed out of the room and went downstairs to give Mr. Pilbeam his breakfast. To the skipper in the confined space and darkness of the cupboard the breakfast seemed unending. The sergeant evidently believed in sitting over his meals, and his deep, rumbling voice, punctuated by good-natured laughter, was plainly audible. To pass the time the skipper fell to counting, and, tired of that, recited some verses that he had acquired at school. After that, and with far more heartiness, he declaimed a few things that he had learned since; and still the clatter and rumble sounded from below.