Cynthia threw him a compassionate glance. “No, I shouldn’t think you do,” she said warmly. “That’s why I’m here.” She walked swiftly over to the door, and, to Mr. Priestley’s astonishment, turned the key. “I want to talk to you very confidentially, Mr. Priestley. I’ve only got a very few minutes, and whatever happens nobody must see me here. Oh, why aren’t you in the telephone-book? I’ve wasted hours finding out your address.” “God bless my soul!” said the astonished Mr. Priestley. Cynthia began to talk. Out in the passage, hovering warily, Barker heard the key turn in the lock and walked thoughtfully back to the kitchen. “The saucy old kipper!” was Mr. Barker’s summing-up of the situation, after profound cogitation. He repeated his analysis to an empty milk-jug. “The saucy old _kipper_!” confided Mr. Barker to the milk-jug. Ten minutes later Cynthia was taking farewell of a staggered Mr. Priestley. “And you’ll be by the Achilles statue at three o’clock?” she said, offering the gray-gloved hand again. “I’ve ever so much more to tell you, but I simply must fly now as she’s been waiting there since twelve for the cloak-room ticket. Think over that idea of mine in the meantime, and see if you can improve on it. And for goodness’ sake don’t let Laura follow you this afternoon. Good-bye, Mr. Priestley.” “Good-bye, Mrs. Nesbitt,” mumbled Mr. Priestley, who had been conversing for the last ten minutes entirely in gasps. “And—and thank you so much.” “Not a bit. I can only apologise most humbly, as the only member of the conspiracy with perhaps a single grain of sense, that I ever let things go so far; I ought to have put my foot down at the very beginning. And now I must go. Oh, and perhaps you’d better tell your man not to let it out to Laura that I’ve been here this morning.” “Yes, yes, of course,” muttered the dazed recipient of her confidences, trying to open the door by twisting the handle backwards and forwards. Cynthia gently unlocked it for him. Mr. Priestley saw her out himself, more or less, and then ambled along the passage to the kitchen. “Barker,” said Mr. Priestley, eyeing his servitor as blankly as if the latter had actually turned into the breakfast dish he so much resembled. “Barker, kindly say nothing to Miss How—to Miss Lau—to my cousin about the lady who called this morning. Or,” added Mr. Priestley comprehensively, “to any one else.” “Very good, sir,” agreed Barker without visible emotion. He waited till Mr. Priestley’s shuffling footsteps had ceased to be audible in the passage. Then he gave vent to his feelings. “Well, I’ll be blowed!” remarked Mr. Barker to the silver spoon he happened to be polishing at the moment. “Running two of ’em at once, unbeknown to each other! Sends one out and has the other in, and vice verse. The giddy old gazebo!” said Mr. Barker to the silver spoon. Chapter XIII. Cynthia Begins to Smile