“Oh, Mrs. Temple!” Pentecost called in the most ordinary tone. “I’m on the hunt for a drink of water. Maybe you’d get me some, if it isn’t too much trouble?” The old woman reappeared at the door with a bunch of chips and shavings in her hands. “It ain’t no trouble,” she mumbled without the faintest trace of embarrassment, and limped along to the stairway. Pentecost watched her labor up the stairs, then turned to Haworth standing in the door of the planked-up room. “That old dame of yours is right on the mark,” he said in an undertone. “Came out of there with a bunch of shavings.” “Yes—my shop. She gets them for the stove.” “So I inferred,” said Pentecost. His admiration was because she’d managed it so deftly and said nothing about it. An amateur would have mentioned the stove. Just as well to keep an eye on that old lady. She soon came back with the water. Pentecost took it from her. “Awful sorry to trouble you,” he said, “—and all those stairs to climb.” He took a sip of water. “You won’t need anything more down here perhaps?” “Anything more?” she repeated in a puzzled way. “Kindlings, for instance?” “Not if the fire goes, I won’t.” “I’m trusting, then, that it’ll do that.” They stood looking at each other for an instant. Then the old woman turned and went hobbling off into the shadows of the basement and could be dimly seen toiling up the stairs. A moment before she disappeared Pentecost said to Haworth, speaking distinctly but not raising his voice, “It’s a remarkable invention, Mr. Haworth—one that, handled properly, would make money; and I’d like to talk business with you.” Then, setting down the glass of water, he asked if he could have something out of his workshop. “Of course,” Haworth said, hardly understanding. “What is it?” “A piece of board five or six feet long—a light one about the size of a lath.” They found a piece of narrow half-inch stuff, and Pentecost stood it against the wall, slanting across the path of anyone walking through the passageway in the darkness. He balanced it so that a touch would send it clattering down. “Mrs. Temple wouldn’t listen, if that’s what you think,” Haworth said as they went back to the room. “Of course not,” agreed Pentecost as he carefully closed the door. “Go ahead with it,” he whispered, “but keep the soft pedal on. Basement’s safe enough, but there’s a room above.” “Yes, but Mrs. Temple would never——” “I know—I know. She’s all right. Hell of a pity you don’t know what talent you’ve got in the house! Go on now. What the devil _is_ all this?”