Draped professionally over the chairs in Laura’s bedroom, and less professionally on the bed, were frocks, coats, cloaks, stockings, hats, gloves, and other accessories, all the spring outfit, in fact, and some of the winter and last summer’s as well, except the undies, for which she had judged Mr. Priestley to be not quite old enough as yet despite his years—all arranged with the artless idea of affording pleasure to her benefactor. Laura cast a haggard eye over them as she walked over to the window and contemplated, with apparently deep interest, a blank wall. She was not sorry for the respite. She wanted to think. Having thought madly for five minutes, she arrived at the brilliant conclusion of telepathy. Laura had flirted with telepathy before with Dora, but she had never believed in it very seriously; now she found herself doing so with the utmost conviction. After all, it was the only possible explanation. By some curious telepathic means Dora must have received the message “Crown Prince” at the very moment when the real Crown Prince was being murdered in some totally different spot. More, she must have received something like the actual circumstances of his death. Laura was now quite prepared to believe that the leader of the band of Communists had a broken nose, and even a nickname turning upon that peculiarity. Of course she must stay in the flat. And anyhow, Cynthia knew where she was. She shivered. “The Secret Service, whose resources are simply unlimited.” Oh, what a fool she had been to get herself mixed up in that absurd joke. What an unutterable _fool_! A gentle tap at the door interrupted her frank comments upon herself. “Is the fashion-show ready?” asked a voice. Laura shook herself and forced a smile to her lips. At any rate she must pretend to be feeling brave, whatever was going on underneath. “Yes,” she called out. “Quite ready. Come in.” “Well, well!” said Mr. Priestley, with proper admiration. “Delightful, Laura. Charming indeed. Now show them to me in detail. Well, well!” If his adopted niece seemed a trifle _distraite_ in her attention to the matter in hand, Mr. Priestley evidently did not notice it. His manner was utterly correct. He admired duly, he cocked his head on one side to consider the difficult point of whether saxe-blue really suited his niece better than jade-green, he said all the right things and surprisingly few of the wrong ones. In short, for a man introduced for the first time to this extremely delicate business, Mr. Priestley acquitted himself uncommonly well.