“Well played, by Jove!” said Mr. Priestley, with the wondering admiration of every male for a female who can stand up to pain without flinching. “Thank God!” said Laura, tears of agony in her eyes. “And thank you, Mr. Mullins, too,” she added. It has already been mentioned that Laura was a just girl. So she was, quite often. As if with a common understanding they dropped into chairs and relaxed. The next moment, with a more uncommon understanding, they got up simultaneously, drew their respective chairs as close as possible to the fire and relaxed again. “And now,” said Mr. Priestley, beaming at his companion with benevolent triumph through his glasses, “now what are we going to do?” It was not the least of Mr. Priestley’s achievements that evening that through all its hectic developments he had managed to keep his glasses intact upon the bridge of his nose, even when travelling at forty-five miles an hour in the teeth of a miniature blizzard. Laura looked at him with something that was not quite respect, and not quite affection, but somehow, contained the ingredients of both. Now that he had succeeded in freeing her of that odious handcuff, and been displayed, incidentally, as the complete little gentleman he was, Laura’s feelings towards him had undergone yet another revulsion. At one bound Mr. Priestley had recovered his proper place m her estimation. Handcuffs are an excellent substitute for a time machine. Laura had only known Mr. Priestley, as time is ordinarily reckoned, for a paltry half-dozen hours; she felt as if she had known him intimately for as many years. And he really was rather a dear! Undoubtedly, Laura now decided once more, it was a shame to be hoaxing him in this way, when the poor man was taking it all so desperately in earnest. For the hundredth time, but for different reasons on almost each occasion, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth, nearly the whole truth, and hardly anything but the truth. For the hundredth time she refrained. The continuance of the beam through Mr. Priestley’s glasses decided her this time. It was borne in upon Laura that in a way Mr. Priestley really was enjoying himself, at any rate he was living Life with a capital L; and she felt that, after the good turn he had just done her, he did deserve something better at her hands than such an anti-climax as the truth would be. Besides, Laura reminded herself more sternly, it was probably all exceedingly good for him. “What shall we do?” she repeated meekly. “Well, that seems to be for you to say, Mr. Mullins. I’m rather in your hands, aren’t I?” And she edged uneasily away from some of her clamminess and suppressed a shiver. Mr. Priestley noticed both movements. “Very well,” he said promptly. “I want to have a talk with you, of course, but it’s no good running the risk of pneumonia. You must get out of those wet clothes of yours. I’ll go down to the kitchen and do the same.”