What were those two devils after, he wondered as he lay there in the darkness? No good--that was certain. Now that he came to reflect upon it their conduct during the afternoon and evening had not been of a reassuring sort. Christopher had kept entirely away from him; he had not seen Christopher at all since the discussion of the afternoon, which Miss Pett had terminated so abruptly. He had seen Miss Pett twice or thrice--Miss Pett's attitude on each occasion had been that of injured innocence. She had brought him his tea in silence, his supper with no more than a word. It was a nice supper--she set it before him with an expression which seemed to say that however badly she herself was treated, she would do her duty by others. And Mallalieu, seeing that expression, had not been able to refrain from one of his sneering remarks. "Think yourself very badly done to, don't you, missis!" he had exclaimed with a laugh. "Think I'm a mean 'un, what?" "I express no opinion, Mr. Mallalieu," replied Miss Pett, frigidly and patiently. "I think it better for people to reflect. A night's reflection," she continued as she made for the door, "oft brings wisdom, even to them as doesn't usually cultivate it." Mallalieu had no objection to the cultivation of wisdom--for his own benefit, and he was striving to produce something from the process as he lay there, waiting. But he said to himself that it was easy enough to be wise after the event--and for him the event had happened. He was in the power of these two, whom he had long since recognized as an unscrupulous woman and a shifty man. They had nothing to do but hand him over to the police if they liked: for anything he knew, Chris Pett might already have played false and told the police of affairs at the cottage. And yet on deeper reflection, he did not think that possible--for it was evident that aunt and nephew were after all they could get, and they would get nothing from the police authorities, while they might get a good deal from him. But--what did they expect to get from him? He had been a little perplexed by their attitude when he asked them if they expected him to carry a lot of money on him--a fugitive. Was it possible--the thought came to him like a thunderclap in the darkness--that they knew, or had some idea, of what he really had on him? That Miss Pett had drugged him every night he now felt sure--well, then, in that case how did he know that she hadn't entered his room and searched his belongings, and especially the precious waistcoat? Mallalieu had deposited that waistcoat in the same place every night--on a chair which stood at the head of his bed. He had laid it folded on the chair, had deposited his other garments in layers upon it, had set his candlestick and a box of matches on top of all. And everything had always been there, just as he had placed things, every morning when he opened his eyes. But--he had come to know Miss Pett's stealthiness by that time, and ...