With renewed animation the girl proceeded to give them to him, telling her story as much as possible between stations but not sparing her larynx even in the tunnels. Mr. Priestley listened to her with mingled feelings of relief and uneasiness. The relief was due to the fact that she was not, after all, the promising young criminal for which he had taken her, the uneasiness to the realisation that the matter was very much more complicated than he had ever imagined; she was planning to commit burglary, true, but it was, so to speak, a white burglary. Briefly, the story which Mr. Priestley learnt with gradually increasing indignation was to the effect that Miss Spettigue had, when a younger and exceedingly foolish virgin, written certain letters to a man who had turned out subsequently to be, if not a wolf, at any rate a fox in sheep’s clothing. “Nothing actually wrong in them, Mr. Mullins,” she explained with touching earnestness. “Just—well, just _silly_.” “Oh, quite,” murmured the temporary Mr. Mullins uncomfortably. “Precisely.” The disguised fox had since married; but, on being approached with a view to surrendering his trophies of Miss Spettigue’s girlish affections, had refused point-blank to do anything of the sort. Matters had begun to look serious, for the Fox, this time approaching Miss Spettigue himself, had hinted very plainly that, if she wished to regain possession of her compromising effusions, she must be prepared to pay for the privilege, and very handsomely too. Miss Spettigue here paused to dab her eyes again and gulp. “The scoundrel!” exclaimed the horrified Mr. Priestley. The lady flashed him a look of gratitude and continued her tale. A sum had actually been named, far in excess of her possibilities, and there the matter had rested—with the unpleasant threat in the background that if the money were not paid by a certain date “steps would be taken.” As the money could not be paid, it was obviously a matter of some urgency to obtain possession of the letters by other means. “You’re engaged to be married, no doubt?” observed Mr. Priestley half-abstractedly, when the recital was finished. His thoughtful gaze was fixed on the opposite side of the carriage and he seemed to be debating his immediate future. “Of course, you could hardly tell your fiancé. I quite see that.” His companion bestowed on him a sidelong and somewhat anxious look. Mr. Priestley was far too preoccupied to notice it, but a shrewd observer might have summed it up as the calculating look of one hastily reckoning up comparative values. If this were so, she made her decision with commendable promptitude. “I am not engaged to be married, Mr. Mullins,” she said, “I _am_ married.”