From the centre of the pillow in the large bed a small face, framed in sheet, regarded him with ill-concealed alarm. Even the sight of Mr. Priestley swathed in his pink flannel and lace appeared to bring it no joy. Two round eyes followed his every movement, and as he advanced towards the bed the sheet that framed the face took on a tense appearance beside either cheek, as if two small hands were gripping it convulsively. The face did not speak, for the simple reason that its owner was totally incapable of uttering a word. It is very difficult to inaugurate a chatty conversation when your throat has gone quite dry and your tongue has apparently affixed itself irrevocably to the roof of your mouth. Carrying his pink flannel with the dignity of a Roman in his toga, Mr. Priestley halted beside the bed and stared down into the silent face with a look that was almost grim. “And now, young woman,” he said, in a voice which matched his look only too well, “I want an explanation, if you please.” Reader, have you ever drunk home-made elderberry wine? Not a pale imitation, I mean, but the real, genuine, honest article? Have you gone still further and imbibed a full three-quarters of a pint of it? For, if you have, there is no need for me to explain. However, in case your life has been empty and vain, I will point out that home-made elderberry wine (the real, honest stuff) does practically nothing for about a quarter of an hour. During that period it just sits and ruminates. Then it makes up for lost time. Suddenly the sheet on either side of Laura’s face relaxed. She smiled. “Yes, I expect you do,” she agreed. Mr. Priestley smiled too. “I certainly do.” Laura laughed. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask for one.” Mr. Priestley laughed too. In the space of a few seconds the whole thing seemed to have taken on a completely different aspect. It was not a tragedy at all; it was—yes, utterly incredible but perfectly true—really quite funny! Laura seemed to find it funny too. Her laugh degenerated into a giggle. Mr. Priestley sat down on the bed. “Of course, you know I’m not that man Mullins,” he stated rather than asked. How very obtuse of him never to have realised that before! Of course she knew it. “When did you begin to find out?” “I knew all the time,” giggled Laura. “Oh, dear, this is ridiculous, isn’t it?” “Quite absurd,” grinned Mr. Priestley. “I’m afraid, by the way, that I must have been rather a handicap to you this evening.” “Not at all,” said Laura politely. “You see, I’ve never associated with professional criminals before. My name is——” A glimmer of sense returned to Mr. Priestley, and he withheld that confidence. Laura was giggling again. “You know, I’m not _really_ a professional criminal,” she volunteered. “I’m quite honest. Is that a dreadful disappointment?”