“My dear mother, you are making some extra-ordinary mistake. The last time that I saw Miss Smith was three years ago. I then asked her to marry me, and she refused. I would go on asking her every day from now to kingdom come if I thought that it was the slightest good. As it isn’t, I am only anxious to be of use to her in any possible way. She came here to-night to ask my advice on an official matter.” Mrs. March fixed her very large blue eyes upon her son. They were swimming with tears, but behind the tears there was something which suddenly went to Jane’s heart—something bewildered and hurt, and rather ungrown-up. “You always were a good boy, Henry,” said Mrs. March, and Henry’s instant rigid embarrassment had the effect of cheering Jane. She came forward and took the limp white hand that still clutched a borrowed handkerchief. “I’m sure he’ll always be a good son to you, and I wouldn’t take him away from you for the world. He’s just a very kind friend. Good-night, Mrs. March.” She went out without looking back, but Henry followed her into the hall. “You’re not really going to plunge into this foolish affair?” he said as they stood for a moment by the door. It was Jane who opened it. “Yes, I am, Henry. You can’t stop me, and you know it.” Jane’s eyes looked straight into his, and Henry did know. “Very well, then. Read the agony column in _The Times_. If I want you to have a message, it will be there, signed with the day of the week on which it appears. You understand? If the message is in _The Times_ of Wednesday, it will be signed, ‘Wednesday.’ And if there are directions in the message, you will obey them implicitly.” “How _thrilling_,” said Jane. “Is it?” Henry looked very tired. “I don’t know if I’ve done right, but I can’t tell you any more just now. By the way, Molloy’s flat will be watched, and I shall know whether you go to Luttrell Marches or not. Good-bye, Jane.” “Good-bye, Henry.” Henry watched the lift disappear. CHAPTER IV “This,” said Arnold Todhunter, “is the fire-escape.” His tone was that of one who says, “This is our Rembrandt.” Proud proprietorship pervaded his entire atmosphere. “Ssh!” said Jane. They stood together in a small back-yard. It seemed to be quite full of things like barrows, paving-stones, old tin cans, and broken crockery. Jane had already tripped over a meat tin and collided with two chicken coops and a dog kennel. She reflected that this was just the sort of back-yard Arnold would find. Everything was very dark. The blackest shadow of all marked the wall that they were to climb. Here and there a lighted window showed, and Jane could see that these windows had rounded parapets jutting out on a level with the sill. Arnold, meanwhile, was tugging at something which seemed to be a short plank. “What on earth?” she whispered. “We shall need it. I’d better go first.”