"We ain't got any of those things," she declared. "We ain't?" Her guest was pained. "What have we got?" "We got ham and eggs and lettuce and milk and coffee and squash pie." He sighed. "They will do," he said resignedly. "Do you think you could have them ready in five minutes?" The luncheon was a cheerful meal, for Laurie made it so. When it was finished he went to the kitchen window, opened it, and carefully arranged several hot ham sandwiches in a row. "For the birdies," he explained. "For the cold little birdies out in the grounds." He even chirped invitingly to the "birdies," but these latter, throughout his visit, showed a coy reluctance to approach the house. He caught another odd grimace on the features of the old woman, who was now washing the dishes. "We won't confine you to any one room this afternoon," he told her. "Wander where your heart leads you. But remember, you're on parole. Like ourselves, you must forego all communication with the glad outer world. And leave the secretary where he is, unless you want him hurt." "This storm will be a good thing for us," he mentioned to Doris, when they had returned to the up-stairs sitting-room. "It will be dark soon after four, and the snow will cover our footsteps. But I'm inclined to think," he added, reflectively, "that before we start I'd better go out and truss up those two birds in the grounds." She showed an immediate apprehension. "No, no! you mustn't think of that!" she cried. "Promise me you won't." He shrugged his shoulders. "As you wish, of course. But if they interfere when we're getting started, surely you'll let me rock them to sleep, won't you?" "I--I don't know. Something may happen! Oh, I wish you hadn't come!" She was clearly in a panic, a genuine one. It seemed equally clear that her nerves, under the recent strain put upon them, were in a bad way. All this was Shaw's work, and as he realized it Laurie's expression changed so suddenly that the girl cried out: "What is it? What's the matter?" He answered, still under the influence of the feeling that had shaken him. "I was just thinking of our friend Bertie and of a little bill he's running up against the future. Sooner or later, and I rather think it will be sooner, Bertie's going to pay that bill." She did not move, but gave him a look that made him thoughtful. It was an odd, sidelong look, frightened, yet watchful. He remembered that once or twice before she had given him such a look. More than anything else that had happened, this glance chilled him. It was not thus that the woman he loved should look at him. Suddenly he heard her gasp, and the next instant the silence of the room was broken by another voice, a voice of concentrated rage with a snarl running through it. "So you're here, are you?" it jerked. "By God, I'm sick of you and of your damned interference!"