The same brown hair, growing in the same odd peak upon the forehead, the same arch to the brow, the same greenish-hazel eyes. Renata’s face was tear-stained, her eyelids red and swollen—“but that’s exactly how I look when I cry,” said Jane. She set her hand by Renata’s hand, her foot by Renata’s foot. The same to a shade. The other girl watched her with bewildered eyes. “Speak—say something,” said Jane. “What shall I say?” “Anything—the multiplication table, the days of the week—I want to hear your voice.” “Oh, Jane, what an odd girl you are!” said Renata—“and don’t you think Arnold had better come in? It must be awfully cold out there.” “Presently,” said Jane. “It’s very hard to tell, but I believe that our voices are as much alike as the rest of us.” She opened her bag, and took out The List and a pencil. “Now, write something—I don’t care what.” Renata wrote her own name, and then, after a pause, “It is a fine day.” “Quite like,” said Jane, “but nearly all girls do write the same hand now. I can manage that. Now, tell me, where were you at school?” “Miss Bazing’s, Ilfracombe.” “When did you leave?” “Two months ago.” “Have you been in America?” “Not since I was five.” “Anywhere else out of England?” “No.” “What languages do you know?” “French—I’m not good at it.” “Well, that’s that. Now, Arnold tells me you heard them say you were to go to Luttrell Marches?” Renata looked terrified. “Yes, yes, I did.” “You’re not supposed to know? They haven’t told you officially?” “No—no, they haven’t told me anything.” “Your father goes away to-morrow. Have they told you that?” “I can’t remember,” said Renata, bursting into tears. “Oh, Jane, you don’t know what it’s like!—to be locked in here—to have them come and ask questions until I don’t know what I’m saying—and to know, to know all the time that if I make one slip I’m lost.” “Yes, yes, but it’s going to be all right,” said Jane. “I can’t sleep,” sobbed Renata, “and I can’t eat.” She held up her wrist and looked at it with interest. “I’ve got ever so much thinner.” Jane could have slapped her. She reflected with thankfulness that Bolivia was a good long way off. “Now, look here,” she said, “you talk about ‘they’—who are ‘they’?” “There’s a man in a fur coat,” faltered Renata—“that is to say, he generally has on a fur coat; he always seems to be cold. He’s the worst; I don’t know his name, but they call him Number Two. He’s English. Then there’s Number Four. He’s a foreigner of some sort, and he’s dreadful—dreadful. I think—I think”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“my father is Number Three.” Then almost inaudibly, “Number One is at Luttrell Marches. It’s Number One who will decide about me—about me. Oh, Jane, I’m so dreadfully frightened!” Renata’s eyes, wide and terrified, stared past Jane into vacancy. “You needn’t be in the least frightened; you’re going to Bolivia,” said Jane briskly.