Evie smiled graciously. "Yes, won't you have something, Miss Causton? Let me have them lay a tray for you--it will be really no trouble." But Louie would take nothing. She had drawn down her veil again, and was extending her fingers to Evie. "Don't trouble to come, Mr Jeffries," she said, moving towards the door, while Evie prattled polite phrases. But I took her to the door. Four words--a "Good-night" on either side--were all that passed between us. Then I returned to the library. Evie was standing where Louie had been standing, but no sooner did I enter than she passed me. Taking into account the warning of Stillhausen's bell, she must have waited for the purpose of so passing me. But this did not strike me until a little later. Only when she reached the door did she turn and speak. "Did Miss Causton ask for me?" she said. "Eh?" I asked, surprised.... "No. Why?" "Oh, nothing. Only that I thought that when one called one asked for the lady of the house." I smiled as I set my writing-table to rights. "'Called?' It was hardly a call, my dear." "Evidently not." I looked quickly up. Evie's tone was new to me. "Come, come, darling--a necessary matter of business," I expostulated. "I'm sorry I interrupted." "'Interrupted!'... Good gracious, Evie!" "But of course I didn't; you can't be interrupted here." I was astonished. "Why, what--what do you mean?" She looked coldly at me, without replying. I frowned. I am ashamed to say that it cost me a little effort to master an impatience that had suddenly arisen in me. I spoke slowly for that purpose. "If by your last remark you mean that bell, Evie, it was here before we came, and I fancy you knew it was. At any rate it shall be taken away to-morrow." Very irritatingly (I have told you how I am not quite the man of phlegm I was) she took me up at my last word. "Oh, yes, about to-morrow," she said. "You don't happen to be going out to-night, do you?" "No. Why?" This was stranger than ever. She knew I never went out at night now. "Because Mrs. Hastie telephoned me to-day. Joan isn't well, and can't come. So perhaps you'd like Sir Julius to ask somebody else--unless, of course----" "Unless what?" "Unless--there's somebody you'd rather ask yourself." For a moment I was silent; then, "Evie," I said slowly, "do you--I don't see how you can, but do you--mean Louie Causton?" She laughed tremulously. "Oh, very well; if I can't, I can't, I suppose, so that ends it." And the next moment she was gone. Half-an-hour later I met her on the stairs. "Oh," she announced, without preface, "Phyllis isn't very well, and I think I shall spend the night in the nursery with her." She has done so. I have had a wretched night. I turned and turned, but found no sleep. By dint of turning, I found something else, though--a new meaning in those words Louie Causton had said to me: "If I could say that Miriam Levey and Kitty Windus had been chattering, which I can't----" I tossed and tossed.