Now Mr. Priestley was a chivalrous man. Even as his Adventure had turned out, he could not bring himself to slip out of it, as he easily could have done already, without a word of explanation. He had been responsible for this tangled skein; it was equally his responsibility to leave it in a properly tidied condition. Without going so far as to make a clean breast of his own baseness, he yet felt it necessary to explain that this evening at any rate was a close season for burglars. For the rest, any faint feelings of curiosity which he might have entertained regarding the ultimate intentions of this charming but nefarious maiden had now been quite swamped in the urgency of his anxiety not to be mixed up in them. Even to himself Mr. Priestley could not but admit that he would make a remarkably poor burglar. A taxi would have suited his purpose much better, but he had to do the best he could with the Underground. Fortunately, there were only one or two people in the carriage, and Mr. Priestley was able to deliver himself with no fear of being overheard. “Miss Spettigue,” he began, in the low, firm voice of the Man who will Stand No Nonsense. “Miss Spettigue, I fear I have some unpleasant news for you.” The lady curved a small hand round an invisible ear. “Did you say anything?” she inquired at the top of her voice. Mr. Priestley abandoned the low, firm voice and substituted a louder edition. “I fear I have some unpleasant news for you,” he roared above the din of the train. Chatty conversation on the Underground is best carried on between a retired fog-horn and a bull from Bashan. “If it’s your tools,” the girl howled cheerfully, “I——” “It isn’t my tools,” bellowed Mr. Priestley with a testiness which quite surprised him. “It’s this. I regret that I shall be unable to—er—to break into this house for you.” “Unable to——?” The girl looked at him with astonishment. “What do you mean?” she shrieked. At that moment the train considerately slowed down to approach a station, and the interchange of ideas became easier. “What do you mean?” repeated the girl, in more normal tones. Mr. Priestley wriggled uneasily. “I—I’ve reformed, you see,” he mumbled. “You’ve _what_?” “Reformed. I—I’m not going to burgle any more.” “Why ever not?” Mr. Priestley fixed a hot gaze on an advertisement containing some pithy advice to mothers. “I—well, I don’t think it’s right,” he said uncomfortably. There was a short but tense silence. The train shrieked to a standstill. “I think I’d better get out here,” murmured Mr. Priestley unhappily, still learning what to do if he ever became a mother. “Here’s your ticket,” muttered Mr. Priestley, now blushing miserably all over.