"I ought to have known," he said, "that a woman judges by emotion, not reason. In the morning perhaps I shall be able to convince you of my innocence." He gave her the key, which she snatched with unnecessary vehemence. "Good night. Thank you for an uneventful evening." She ignored the insolence, which he justified to himself by her unreasonable suspicions. Leaving him in a nonchalant attitude, she swept out like an offended princess, her satellite following in an eloquent silence. Lionel heard the key turn dismally in the lock, and then the sound of footsteps retreating down the passage. He laughed gently to himself. "Good lord, what a muddle!" he said, "and what an evening! First, the face at the window (what a title for a melodrama!--Dash it! I've seen it already on the posters!); second, the appearance of Mizzi; third, discovered by Winifred. Climax after climax, and I was beginning to think myself bored. _Bored_ ... ye gods!... all I need at the present moment is bed: I've done enough thinking to scour my brain-pan for a year." He undressed rapidly and got into bed. As he pulled the clothes about him he chuckled, remembering Winifred's face. Then he grew grave. "Sacked to-morrow, old boy!" he muttered. "Marching orders at breakfast and no mistake! But before I go I'll ask her straight out what little Mizzi is doing here." And then he turned over and was soon asleep. But the horn of plenty still had some gifts to shower upon him: the god of mischances had not yet exhausted his store of thrills. About five minutes, as it seemed, after his retiring--it was really an hour and a half--Lionel was roused from a deep slumber by a knock. He sat up in bed, blinking heavily, wondering if his senses had deceived him, whether he was dreaming or awake. For a moment he sat listening, and then the knock was repeated, distinct beyond the possibility of mistake. "Confound it!" he muttered in an ill temper; "they might give me a night off now.... To-morrow I'll hang a placard on my door--'Conspiracies attended to from nine A. M. to eleven P. M. Kindly note hours of consultation.'--Hello!" he said aloud; "is anybody there?" The door opened a few inches, but no one entered. Lionel was too bored to speculate whether it might be Mizzi, Winifred or some unknown Oriental with turban and simitar. He was prepared to accept anything, if only he might be allowed to go to sleep. "Hello!" he repeated; "who is that?" "Me," said the voice of Miss Arkwright. "Are you asleep, Mr. Mortimer?" "Yes," said Lionel, grinning in the darkness--"sound asleep." A species of cluck was heard from outside the door, but whether the strange sound indicated amusement or wrath he could not determine. He was wide awake now, determined to exact vengeance for his cavalier treatment. "Some one," continued the voice, "is prowling round the house. A thief, I suppose. He seems to have a ladder." "Oh!" said Lionel, in the dispassionate tone of the village idiot. "Oh!"