A maid had laid out her night things on a big settee (a little to Lydia's surprise) and she undressed quickly. She opened the door of her bedroom, her hand was on a switch, when she was conscious of a faint and not unpleasant odour. It was a clean, pungent smell. "Disinfectant," said her brain mechanically. She turned on the light, wondering where it came from. And then as she crossed the room she came in sight of her bed and stopped, for it was saturated with water--water that dropped from the hanging coverlet, and made little pools on the floor. From the head of the bed to the foot there was not one dry place. Whosoever had done the work was thorough. Blankets, sheets, pillows were soddened, and from the soaked mass came a faint acrid aroma which she recognised, even before she saw on the floor an empty bottle labelled "Peroxide of Hydrogen." She could only stand and stare. It was too late to arouse the household, and she remembered that there was a very comfortable settee in the dressing-room with a rug and a pillow, and she went back. A few minutes later she was fast asleep. Not so Miss Briggerland, who was sitting up in bed, a cigarette between her lips, a heavy volume on her knees, reading: "Such malignant cases are almost without exception rapidly fatal, sometimes so early that no sign of the characteristic symptoms appear at all," she read and, dropping the book on the floor, extinguished her cigarette on an alabaster tray, and settled herself to sleep. She was dozing when she remembered that she had forgotten to say her prayers. "Oh, damn!" said Jean, getting out reluctantly to kneel on the cold floor by the side of the bed. Chapter XIX Her maid woke Jean Briggerland at eight o'clock the next morning. "Oh, miss," she said, as she drew up the table for the chocolate, "have you heard about Mrs. Meredith?" Jean blinked open her eyes, slipped into her dressing jacket and sat up with a yawn. "Have I heard about Mrs. Meredith? Many times," she said. "But what somebody did last night, miss?" Jean was wide awake now. "What has happened to Mrs. Meredith?" she asked. "Why, miss, somebody played a practical joke on her. Her bed's sopping." "Sopping?" frowned the girl. "Yes, miss," the woman nodded. "They must have poured buckets of water over it, and used up all Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's peroxide, what she uses for keeping her hands nice." Jean swung out of her bed and sat looking down at her tiny white feet. "Where did Mrs. Meredith sleep? Why didn't she wake us up?" "She slept in the dressing-room, miss. I don't suppose the young lady liked making a fuss." "Who did it?" "I don't know who did it. It's a silly kind of practical joke, and I know none of the maids would have dared, not the French ones." Jean put her feet into her slippers, exchanged her jacket for a gown, and went on a tour of inspection.