“If I call you Laura,” Mr. Priestley pointed out with gentle reproof, “surely you ought to call me Matthew.” “Thank you, Matthew,” said Laura meekly. She had not the heart to point out to this engaging babe that it really is not done to keep young women in bachelor rooms, even with the most unselfish intentions; nor is it exactly healthy for the said young woman’s reputation to consent to take up her residence in a bachelor’s rooms, even through a desire not to hurt the bachelor’s feelings by refusing to do so. These things did not appear to touch Mr. Priestley. He was not of the world, worldly; he was of the elect, a big-hearted infant. And to talk of scandal to infants and put nasty worldly, prurient ideas into their innocent heads is manifestly no woman’s job. But as to what was really going to happen——! Laura shrugged her shoulders whimsically and looked out of the window. She had asked for it, and apparently she was getting it. But it was a pity that she did not appear to be able to invent any story at all which did not recoil on her own shingled head. What was she going to do? She shrugged her shoulders again. Anyhow—it was deadly dull in Duffley. Chapter XI. Perspicacity of a Chief Constable For quite fifteen seconds George dithered silently on the doorstep. A Chief Constable was the last thing he had expected to be called upon to confront, and a stern-eyed, unsmiling, purposeful-looking Chief Constable at that. So far as George knew, Chief Constables were a contingency for which no preparation had been made at all. And of course it _would_ happen when both Guy and Doyle were not here to deal with it. “Mr. N-n-nesbitt?” dithered George. “He-he’s out.” “Where is he?” asked the unsmiling Chief Constable sharply. “Over at M-Mr. F-Foster’s, I think,” replied George, feeling under those penetrating blue eyes exactly like a schoolboy up before his head master. George would not have been the least surprised at that moment had the Chief Constable produced a serviceable birch-rod from his person and remarked sternly: “I’m going to birch you, boy!” He would have assumed a suitable attitude without hesitation. The Chief Constable, missing his opportunity, continued only to bore into George’s brain with his piercing glance. “When’s he coming back?” he demanded. “I don’t know,” said George feebly. The Chief Constable digested this. “Is Mrs. Nesbitt at home?” he rapped out. “Yes,” said George, without thinking. “No,” he added, thinking hastily. “Yes,” he corrected himself, thinking further. “I mean, I don’t know,” he concluded, ceasing to think at all. The Chief Constable looked surprised. “Is Mrs. Nesbitt at home or not?” he asked sarcastically. “Take your time, Mr. Howard, and try to remember.”