The recently married Mrs. Spettigue leaned towards him and impulsively laid a small, gloved hand upon his. “Now _do_ say you’ll get my letters for me, Mr. Mullins!” she beseeched, her pretty eyes fixed on his in a look of infinite entreaty. “You can’t possibly pretend it’s real burgling, can you? _Please!_” The good red blood leapt in Mr. Priestley’s veins as it had not done for fifteen years. After all, what did it matter? The cause was just enough in all conscience, and even if things did go wrong, his own name would not be brought into it. But, bother all that—what did anything matter beside the good name of this poor, charming creature, whose little hand still lay so trustfully upon his? “I—I’ll do my best,” he promised huskily. “My dear young lady, I’ll certainly do my best.” His companion’s relief was undisguised. “Oh, you _dear_!” Her little hand gently squeezed Mr. Priestley’s in touching gratitude. She smiled at him through her tears. “I _knew_ you wouldn’t let me down when it really came to the point.” Many heroes have had less reward. For the rest of the journey, and during the long ride through the darkness in the powerful two-seater, Mr. Priestley remained strangely silent. As a matter of fact he was trying hard to remember anything he had ever read which might prove helpful to one about to commit a felony. Wasn’t there somebody once called Charlie Peace? Or was it Charlie Raffles? Chapter IV. Red Blood and Red Ink The girl backed the car skilfully up an almost invisible lane, and switched off the engine. “We’d better get out here,” she said, in matter-of-fact tones. “The house is only a few yards away.” They got out and walked down the road. Behind trim hedges, broken by white gates, loomed up dimly the shadowy masses of substantial houses. Before one of the white gates Mrs. Spettigue paused. “Here we are!” she observed, in a low, thrilling voice. “Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, unable altogether to prevent himself from wishing they were not. “I—er—I see.” “What do we do now, Mr. Mullins?” Mr. Priestley pulled himself together and did his best to vanquish the curious sinking feeling at the pit of his waistcoat. He must not forget that he was a professional burglar. The reputation of the absent Mr. Mullins rested on his shoulders. “We go in,” he replied, with a decision which he was far from feeling. They went in. As they walked up the short drive Mr. Priestley pondered very earnestly. Now it came to the point, how on earth _did_ one break into a house? The nearer he got to the building, the more solid and impenetrable it looked. Weren’t there cunning things to be done with knife-blades and window-latches? And treacle and that he had never come at all and being remarkably glad that he had. Anyhow, turnip indeed!