Rosie was evidently listening--the door was ajar--and after a few moments she stepped hastily outside on to the landing, and glanced up the well of the staircase. At the summit of the staircase she saw the door of the great attic open, and a figure emerge; the figure, which was carrying a small electric lantern, carefully locked the door of the attic behind it, and then, with some deliberation, descended the narrow attic stairs, and, more quietly, the stairs from the servants’ floor to the first floor. The figure was that of Mr. Jetsam, clothed in his eternal suit of blue serge. The stairs and landing were quite dark, save for his lantern and the faint glimmer that came from Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom. Mr. Jetsam had moved without a sound, for he was wearing thick felt slippers. He did not immediately notice Rosie on the landing, and when the light of his lantern caught and showed her dress, he started back slightly. Rosie made no move. “I did not expect you to be there,” he whispered. She regarded him with steady eyes, and then, without a word, motioned him to proceed further downstairs to the ground-floor. “You want to talk to me?” he whispered again. He had a voice which was curiously capable of being almost inaudible, and yet at the same time distinct. She nodded. He pointed to the open door of Mrs. Ilam’s room, but Rosie shook her head. “Why not?” he demanded. She shook her head once more, and they went downstairs to the dining-room, both silently creeping. With infinite precautions he opened the dining-room door, and shut it when they had entered. “It would have been better to remain upstairs,” he said mildly. “The least possible movement is dangerous enough. At this stage a creaking stair might spoil the whole business.” “I cannot talk there,” she said. “But, since Mrs. Ilam is utterly helpless,” he protested, “what can it matter what she hears? She cannot talk.” “The fact that she hears is more than enough to upset me,” said Rosie. “I am like that, you see. I know it is silly, but I can’t help it. I wanted to tell you that I have just had a dreadful scene with Pauline.” “A dreadful scene! You’ve not quarrelled?” he demanded anxiously. “Oh, no! But I’ve lied to her--I’ve lied to her in the most shocking way, and, what is worse, I fancy she didn’t quite believe me.” “She suspects something?” His tone sounded apprehensive in the gloom. “I don’t know; I hope not. In any case, what can she suspect? She’s been in bed all the time.” “True,” said Mr. Jetsam reflectively. “True! You have behaved magnificently, Miss Rosie. Never, never, in this world, shall I be able to thank you. I had not thought that such a woman as you existed. You have given me the first sympathy I have ever had. Yes, the first!--without you I could never have succeeded. I could scarcely have begun. And now I shall succeed. Listen to me--I shall succeed! A wrong will be righted. Justice will be done. If it isn’t, I shall kill myself.”