There is nothing like clamminess to bring out the worst in a man or woman. Mr. Priestley felt clamminess invading his very soul, and the more clammy his outer person became the more sore he felt inside. Here had he, a respectable citizen, been inveigled by this abandoned and now thoroughly distasteful young woman (_had_ he really at one time for a fleeting moment thought her charming? Had he _really_?) into an attempt at barefaced robbery, he had killed a man for her sake, he had locked a policeman in a cupboard, he had rescued her from an extremely awkward set of circumstances so that she was indebted to him not only for her liberty, but possibly for her life as well—he had done all this, and what was his reward? To have his hot cocoa drunk for him, and be snapped at for offering it! Life looked a gloomy proposition to Mr. Priestley. “I suppose you’ve tried to wriggle your hand out?” he asked, when the silence had threatened to become too embarrassing. “Am I a complete fool?” asked the lady shortly. The question had certainly not been a very brilliant one, but then neither was the answer tactful. Mr. Priestley’s reply was still less so. He did not say “Yes!” because that would have been rude; he just said, quite politely, “That remains to be seen.” Laura snorted. The snort seemed to nerve Mr. Priestley. He started slightly, looked at his companion, and then strode towards the door. Laura followed him. Mr. Priestley, radiating stern decision like the men wearing electric belts in the advertisements, flung open the door and called up the stairs. “Mrs. Errh’m!” called Mr. Priestley. “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll have that bedroom of yours after all. Will you take some hot water along there, please?” “Yes, sir, thank you, sir, certainly, sir,” floated down from above. Laura flung the door to and stared at this new version of Mr. Priestley. It was as if she were trying to look through his head to see the horns which must be sprouting there, and his boots for the cloven hoofs which must be hidden inside them. Her face grew interestingly crimson. “How—how _dare_ you?” she gasped. “Are you a complete cad?” Mr. Priestley grew crimson also. “What on earth’s the matter?” he snapped. “You’re not making a fuss about a little thing like that, surely? _You_, of all people!” Laura continued to gasp, this time speechlessly. “If it’s your reputation you’re thinking of,” nastily continued Mr. Priestley, who really was extremely annoyed, “it’s a pity you didn’t think of it long ago, before you took to thieving. Reputation, indeed! Fine reputation you’ve got, haven’t you? The cleverest woman thief in the world, indeed!” It must be admitted that there were no excuses for Mr. Priestley, but no man likes being called a cad, and Mr. Priestley’s horizon at that moment was bound with red; moreover, he was in an acute state of nerves. He had, you must remember, killed a man; and a thing like that is liable to upset the most equable of temperaments.