"You will find water there," and she pointed to the pitcher on the wash-stand. "I cannot give you hot water to-night--there is no fire. Will these towels be sufficient? Yes? Is there anything else? No? Then good-night, sir, and you also, my lady." "Good-night," they answered; and for a moment after the door closed, stood staring at it as though hypnotized. Then the girl stepped to the window and pulled together the curtains of white cotton. As she turned back into the room, Stewart saw that her face was livid. His eyes asked the question which he did not dare speak aloud. She drew him back into the corner and put her lips close against his ear. "There is a guard outside," she whispered. "We must be very careful. We are prisoners still." As Stewart stood staring, she took off her hat and tossed it on a chair. "How tired I am!" she said, yawning heavily, and turning back to the window, she began to take down her hair. CHAPTER VIII PRESTO! CHANGE! The vision of that dark hair rippling down as she drew out pin after pin held Stewart entranced. And the curve of her uplifted arms was also a thing to be remembered! But what was it she proposed to do? Surely---- "If you are going to wash, you would better do it, Tommy," she said, calmly. "I shall be wanting to in a minute." Mechanically, Stewart slipped out of his coat, undid his tie, took off his collar, pulled up his sleeves, and fell to. He was obsessed by a feeling of unreality which even the cold water did not dissipate. It couldn't be true--all this---- "I wish you would hurry, Tommy," said a voice behind him. "I am waiting for you to unhook my bodice." Stewart started round as though stung by an adder. His companion's hair fell in beautiful dark waves about her shoulders, and he could see that her bodice was loosened. "There are two hooks I cannot reach," she explained, in the most matter-of-fact tone. "I should think you would know that by this time!" "Oh, so it's _that_ bodice!" said Stewart, and dried his hands vigorously, resolved to play the game to the end, whatever it might be. "All right," and as she turned her back toward him, he began gingerly searching for the hooks. "Come a little this way," she said; "you can see better," and, glancing up, Stewart suddenly understood. They were standing so that their shadows fell upon the curtain. The comedy was being played for the benefit of the guard in the street outside. The discovery that it _was_ a comedy gave him back all his aplomb, and he found the hooks and disengaged them with a dexterity which no real husband could have improved upon. "There," he said; "though why any woman should wear a gown so fashioned that she can neither dress nor undress herself passes my comprehension. Why not put the hooks in front?" "And spoil the effect? Impossible! The hooks must be in the back," and still standing before the window, she slowly drew her bodice off.