She spoke as before, on one note, until she came to the last few words, when her voice suddenly dropped an entire octave, and then sank in rumbling silence, by falling, first one, and then another, note. This, I found, was her invariable way of speaking. In effect, it reminded me of a person walking with even step along a corridor, until he reaches a flight of stairs, down eight of which he suddenly falls, at one flight, recovering himself sufficiently, at the ninth, to rise and stalk majestically down the last two or three. If, in the course of my story, I do not again allude to this peculiarity, it will not be because she ever lost the mannerism in question, but because, the mannerism having already been fully described, a repeated description of it in detail would, I fear, soon become wearisome. It is so much easier, so much cheaper, if I may use the word, to caricature a mannerism than to indicate character--to describe a personal eccentricity than to indicate a type--that I am not a little shamefaced at having written at such length regarding this peculiarity of one of my characters. So marked a feature could not, however, be passed over in silence, for I do not recall one solitary occasion when she failed to drop her voice in the way I have described when coming to the end of what she had to say. Miss Carleton gone, her aunt, regarding me majestically, rang the bell. When the man-servant appeared, she pointed at me. "I wish to confer with my niece, Metcalfe. Meanwhile, that person must not leave the house or this room. If he attempts to do so, call up the other men-servants, and secure him." With a warning glance at Metcalfe, and a glare at me, the good lady left the room. She was away about twenty minutes. On returning she dismissed the servant, and seating herself, wheeled round in her chair, to turn all her batteries upon my unhappy self. Her voice was, I fancied, a shade less stately, a shade sharper, a shade brisker, and more business-like: "What's your little game?" CHAPTER XII. JOHN CARLETON'S BURGLAR ALARM. I stared at her blankly. "Game?" I said. "Game? I haven't any game. You've heard my story. It's the truth. I haven't anything else to tell or any game to play. What do you take me for?" "Rats!" she answered, shortly. Then she strode over to a side table upon which lay a square box with a button, like that of an electric bell.