Mr. Priestley also knew the fire was a perfectly admirable fire, though he was quite prepared to demean himself by pretending to think otherwise. He had, in fact, gripped the poker as a means of ensuring Barker’s presence in the room for another two minutes, by the end of which period Mr. Priestley devoutly hoped he would have jumped his next two fences. They were fences at which he shied a good deal. He took a running leap at the first one. “By the way, Barker,” he said, with the chattiness of sheer nerves, “this is Miss Merriman—Miss _Laura_ Merriman, Barker—a cousin of mine, who is going to stay with me here for a little while.” “Very good, sir,” Barker acquiesced woodenly in this momentous news. “She—she will assist me in a secretarial capacity,” continued Mr. Priestley unnecessarily. “She is a trained typist, and—and she will assist me in a secretarial capacity.” “Very good, sir,” repeated Barker stolidly from the hearthrug. Not a sign appeared on his boiled-egglike countenance of the joyful interest he was feeling in his master’s unexpected depravity and his wonder why the old josser should think it necessary to fill him up with all this bunkum about cousins and secretarial capacities. Barker had no doubt that this tidy bit of goods was here to assist Mr. Priestley all right, but not in a secretarial capacity. The tidy bit of goods, seated in an arm-chair, demurely contemplated her shoes, unconscious of these uncharitable reflections. “That’s all right then,” said Mr. Priestley, with relief at this first fence safely negotiated. “So get the spare room ready, please.” “Yes, sir.” Barker rose and dusted the knees of his trousers with mild reproach. “And the young lady’s luggage?” he asked maliciously. “Her—her luggage?” stammered Mr. Priestley, who had not expected this query. “Oh, it’s—yes, it’s been mislaid. Most—er—annoying. You quite lost sight of it on the journey, didn’t you, Laura?” “Oh, quite,” Laura agreed, heroically suppressing a giggle. “Should you like me to go and make inquiries about it, sir?” asked Barker, still more maliciously. “No, no,” said Mr. Priestley testily. “We—we have already attended to that. Of course we have.” “Very good, sir,” replied Barker with a perfectly blank face. He turned to go. Of course the bit of goods had no luggage, he’d known that all along; but he had felt that Mr. Priestley deserved the question. Fancy trying to take _him_ in with silly tales about cousins and secretarial capacities! Barker felt almost hurt. “Oh, and Barker!” Barker turned back resignedly, but continuing to impersonate a boiled-egg. “Sir?” Mr. Priestley was fumbling inside his waistcoat, his face exceedingly red. After a little preliminary manœuvring he extended his left arm; the wrist was encircled by an unmistakable handcuff, from which another handcuff dangled wistfully.