“Ah, well,” he said, “in the sight of God, no doubt----” “I’m the cook.” “Oh,” said Sam, relieved, “that explains it.” “Explains what?” “Well, you know, it seemed a trifle odd for a moment that you should be popping about here at this time of night with your hair in curlers and your little white ankles peeping out from under a dressing gown.” “Coo!” said Claire in a modest flutter. She performed a swift adjustment of the garment’s folds. “But if you’re Mr. Braddock’s cook----” “Who said I was Mr. Braddock’s cook?” “You did.” “I didn’t any such thing. I’m Mr. Wrenn’s cook.” “Mr. who?” “Mr. Wrenn.” This was a complication which Sam had not anticipated. “Let us get this thing straight,” he said. “Am I to understand that this house does not belong to Mr. Braddock?” “Yes, you are. It belongs to Mr. Wrenn.” “But Mr. Braddock had a latchkey.” “He’s staying here.” “Ah!” “What do you mean--ah?” “I intended to convey that things are not so bad as I thought they were. I was afraid for a moment that I had got into the wrong house. But it’s all right. You see, I met Mr. Braddock a short while ago and he brought me back here to spend the night.” “Oh?” said Claire. “Did he? Ho! Oh, indeed?” Sam looked at her anxiously. He did not like her manner. “You believe me, don’t you?” “No, I don’t.” “But surely----” “If Mr. Braddock brought you here, where is he?” “He went away. He was, I regret to say, quite considerably squiffed. Immediately after letting me in he dashed off, banging the door behind him.” “Likely!” “But listen, my dear little girl----” “Less of it!” said Claire austerely. “It’s a bit thick if a girl can’t catch a burglar without having him start to flirt with her.” “You wrong me!” said Sam. “You wrong me! I was only saying----” “Well, don’t.” “But this is absurd. Good heavens, use your intelligence! If my story wasn’t true, how could I know anything about Mr. Braddock?” “You could easily have asked around. What I say is if you were all right you wouldn’t be going about in a suit of clothes like that. You look like a tramp.” “Well, I’ve just come off a tramp steamer. You mustn’t go judging people by appearance. I should have thought they would have taught you that at school.” “Never you mind what they taught me at school.” “You have got me all wrong. I’m a millionaire--or rather my uncle is.” “Mine’s the Shah of Persia.” “And a few weeks ago he sent me over to England, the idea being that I was to sail on the _Mauretania_. But that would have involved sharing a suite with a certain Lord Tilbury and the scheme didn’t appeal to me. So I missed the ship and came over on a cargo boat instead.” He paused. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the story sounded thin. He passed it in a swift review before his mind. Yes, thin. And it was quite plain from her expression that the resolute young lady before him shared this opinion. She wrinkled her small nose skeptically, and, having finished wrinkling it, sniffed.