“I shot _at_ him,” said Jane. “My belief is that I missed him. Though how I came to do it beats me. I don’t suppose I’ve missed a sitter like that since I was a child in the nursery. Of course,” she proceeded, looking on the reasonable side, “the visibility wasn’t good, but it’s no use saying I oughtn’t at least to have winged him, because I ought.” She shook her head with a touch of self-reproach. “I shall get chaffed about this if it comes out,” she said regretfully. “The poor boy must be in his room,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Under the bed, if you ask me,” said Jane, blowing on the barrel of her gun and polishing it with the side of her hand. “_He’s_ all right! Leave him alone, and the housemaid will sweep him up in the morning.” “Oh, he can’t be!” cried Billie, revolted. A girl of high spirit, it seemed to her repellent that the man she was engaged to marry should be displaying such a craven spirit. At that moment she despised and hated Bream Mortimer. I think she was wrong, mind you. It is not my place to criticise the little group of people whose simple annals I am relating—my position is merely that of a reporter—; but personally I think highly of Bream’s sturdy common-sense. If somebody loosed off an elephant-gun at me in a dark corridor, I would climb on to the roof and pull it up after me. Still, rightly or wrongly, that was how Billie felt; and it flashed across her mind that Samuel Marlowe, scoundrel though he was, would not have behaved like this. And for a moment a certain wistfulness added itself to the varied emotions then engaging her mind. “I’ll go and look, if you like,” said Jane agreeably. “You amuse yourselves somehow till I come back.” She ran easily up the stairs, three at a time. Mr. Mortimer turned to Mr. Bennett. “It’s all very well your saying Wilhelmina mustn’t go, but, if she doesn’t, how can we get the police? The house isn’t on the ’phone, and nobody else can drive the car.” “That’s true,” said Mr. Bennett, wavering. “Of course, we could drop them a post-card first thing to-morrow morning,” said Mr. Mortimer in his nasty sarcastic way. “I’m going,” said Billie resolutely. It occurred to her, as it has occurred to so many women before her, how helpless men are in a crisis. The temporary withdrawal of Jane Hubbard had had the effect which the removal of the rudder has on a boat. “It’s the only thing to do. I shall be back in no time.” She stepped firmly to the coat-rack, and began to put on her motoring-cloak. And just then Jane Hubbard came downstairs, shepherding before her a pale and glassy-eyed Bream. “Right under the bed,” she announced cheerfully, “making a noise like a piece of fluff in order to deceive burglars.” Billie cast a scornful look at her fiancé. Absolutely unjustified, in my opinion, but nevertheless she cast it. But it had no effect at all. Terror had stunned Bream Mortimer’s perceptions. His was what the doctors call a penumbral mental condition.