"Then I beseech you to have no dealing with the being whose vile accents I heard but a moment ago. A man of depraved instincts and profligate ways, he is no fit companion for a young and innocent girl. Moreover, viper-like, he bears malice towards us, who have shielded him for years." "How awful," said the girl. "Yes," said Berry, "for your own sake, dear lady, beware of him. And for ours, too, I beg you. On no account accept his proffered assistance--in the matter of the key, I mean. If he really has matches, tell him to throw them in. Adopt a hectoring tone and he will fear you. But, remember, he is as cunning as a serpent, Let but that key fall into his hands--" "Wait till it's fallen into your own hands, old cock," said I. "Dear lady," said Berry, "you hear his ribald--" The rest of the sentence was drowned in the peals of laughter to which my companion at last gave vent. I joined her, and the meadow resounded with our merriment. When we had recovered a little: "Will you have the matches?" said I, standing beneath the window, "or shall I send for the battering ram?" "Throw them in, fathead," said my brother-in-law. "Ask nicely, then." "I'll see you--" "Please, Boy, dear," cried Jill. I laughed and pitched the box into the kitchen. The next second we heard a match struck, and the groping sounds recommenced. The girl and I strolled a little back from the window and stood, awaiting the key. "So it's all come true," said I, looking at her. "What has?" "The fairy tale." I pointed to the kitchen. "There is the copper castle, and here"--with a bow--"the pretty Princess. The tinder-box I have just thrown to my companions." "And I suppose you're the soldier," she said slowly. "Yes," I said, "the common soldier." "Common?" "Yes, dear," I said, taking her hand. "Common, but thorough; thoroughly common, but uncommonly thorough. And now look at me, pretty Princess." She turned a laughing face to mine. Suddenly, as I bent forward, the eyes flashed. "I suppose this is the little smile's fault, too," she said quietly. Instantly I released her hand and stood up, smiling. "No," I said gently. "It would have been the soldier's." For a moment she smiled back. Then she slipped an arm round my neck. "Let's call it Hans Andersen's," she whispered. A perfect Babel arose suddenly from the kitchen. In the midst of the turmoil I seemed to discern Berry's fat laugh. The next second a large key hurtled through the window. I picked it up and strode to the door. When I had put it into the keyhole, I paused. "Buck up, Boy!" said Berry. "One question," said I. "Where was the key?" "Where d'you think?" said Jonah bitterly. "In his pocket all the time?" said I. "Right," said Berry. "Now do your worst." "I'm going to," said I. "I'm going to let you out." CHAPTER VII EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY The front door banged. Followed quick steps on the steep, uncarpeted stairs, and a knock on the studio's door.