“I don’t know.” She was feeling her wrist tenderly. “I heard something and went to the window, and then this horrible thing caught hold of me. What was it, Mr. Brixan?” “It was nothing more alarming than a monkey,” said he with affected unconcern. “I’m sorry you were so scared. I guess the shooting worried you more?” “You don’t guess anything of the kind. You know it didn’t. Oh, it was horrible, horrible!” She covered her face with her trembling hands. Old Jack grunted. “I think she’s right, too. You owe something to our friend here, young lady. Apparently he was expecting this visit and watched in the garden.” “You expected it?” she gasped. “Mr. Knebworth has made rather more of the part I played than can be justified,” said Mike. “And if you think that this is a hero’s natural modesty, you’re mistaken. I did expect this gentleman, because he’d been seen in the fields by Mr. Longvale. And you thought you saw him yourself, didn’t you, Knebworth?” Jack nodded. “In fact, we all saw him,” Mike went on, “and as I didn’t like the idea of a coming star (if I may express that pious hope) being subjected to the annoyance of visiting monkeys, I sat up in the garden.” With a sudden impulsive gesture she put out her little hand, and Michael took it. “Thank you, Mr. Brixan,” she said. “I have been wrong about you.” “Who isn’t?” asked Mike with an extravagant shrug. She returned to her room, and this time she closed her window. Once, before she went finally to sleep, she rose and, peeping through the curtains, saw the little glowing point of the watcher’s cigar, and went back to bed comforted, to sleep as if it were only for a few minutes before Foss began knocking on the doors to waken the company. The literary man himself was the first down. The garden was beginning to show palely in the dawn light, and he bade Michael Brixan a gruff good morning. “Good morning to you,” said Michael. “By the way, Mr. Foss, you stayed behind at Griff Towers yesterday to see our friend Penne?” “That’s no business of yours,” growled the man, and would have passed on, but Michael stood squarely in his path. “There is one thing which is a business of mine, and that is to ask you why that little white disc appears on Miss Leamington’s window?” He pointed up to the white circle that the girl had seen the night before. “I don’t know anything about it,” said Foss with rising anger, but there was also a note of fear in his voice. “If you don’t know, who will? Because I saw you put it there, just before it got dark last night.” “Well, if you must know,” said the man, “it was to mark a vision boundary for the camera-man.” That sounded a plausible excuse. Michael had seen Jack Knebworth marking out boundaries in the garden to ensure the actors being in the picture. At the first opportunity, when Knebworth appeared he questioned him on the subject. “No, I gave no instructions to put up marks. Where is it?” Michael showed him.