“Er—good,” said Mr. Priestley, also with a marked lessening of enthusiasm. It may have been that the effects of that second half-bottle were beginning to wear off, it may have been due to the unexpected complication in what had promised to be a straightforward little episode, but the truth was that the Adventure was rapidly losing its light-hearted aspect. For some reason Mr. Priestley felt sure that quite serious developments were in the wind, and he was wondering uneasily just how he was going to cope with them. The girl turned to him with a quick movement. “Did you bring your tools with you?” “My—my _tools_?” echoed Mr. Priestley in bewilderment. Surely he had not been mistaken for a plumber? “Yes, I should love to see them. But I suppose you don’t carry them with you usually, do you?” “Oh, very seldom,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “Very seldom, indeed.” A dim recollection came to him. “My—er—mate, you know,” he murmured. “What a pity! Still, it doesn’t really matter, because you won’t be wanting them to-night, as I told you. I can show you a very easy way into the house.” Mr. Priestley’s blood, already somewhat chilled, dropped several further degrees. For a moment he stared dumbly at his pretty companion. Then he took his bull by its horns. “Perhaps you had better tell me the—the whole story,” he said a little huskily. The girl’s eyes widened in innocent surprise. “But I told you everything, in my letter!” “Yes. Oh, yes,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. “Quite. But I—I think you had better tell me _again_, you see. Letters are never very satisfactory, are they? I mean, perhaps I should understand it all rather more clearly if you—if you told me again, you know!” “I thought I’d made it clear enough,” said the girl in puzzled tones. “We were to meet here to discuss anything necessary, and then go down in my car to break into the house while they’re away for the week-end. What else is there you want me to tell you?” Mr. Priestley’s blood retired a little farther into cold storage. His mild blue eyes remained fixed on his companion’s face in a horrified stare. “To—to break into the house?” he repeated faintly. “Of course! I explained it all in my letter. Why, you’re looking quite startled.” Mr. Priestley strove to pull himself together. “Well, it—it is a little bit startling, isn’t it?” he said with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “Just a little bit. To—to break into the house, so to speak.” The girl’s lips twitched and she turned her head hastily away, apparently to contemplate with every sign of interest an under-developed palm-tree in an opposite corner of the lounge. When she turned back to Mr. Priestley again a moment later her face once more wore an expression of guileless bewilderment. “But what else should I want to hire a burglar for?” she asked, reasonably enough.