“Thank goodness!” he cried. “I think it is your dear eyes that have done it. I could not stand that wistful look in them. What a silly, foolish nightmare it all has been! There’s an end for ever in my belief in presentiments. Now, dear girl, we have just time for one good turn before luncheon. After that the gardens get so crowded that it is hopeless to do anything. Shall we have a side show, or the great wheel, or the flying boat, or what?” “What about the Tower?” she asked, glancing upwards. “Surely that glorious air and the view from the top would drive the last wisps of cloud out of your mind.” He looked at his watch. “Well, it’s past twelve, but I suppose we could do it all in an hour. But it doesn’t seem to be working. What about it, conductor?” The man shook his head and pointed to a little knot of people who were assembled at the entrance. “They’ve all been waiting, sir. It’s hung up, but the gear is being overhauled, and I expect the signal every minute. If you join the others I promise it won’t be long.” They had hardly reached the group when the steel face of the lift rolled aside--a sign that there was hope in the future. The motley crowd drifted through the opening and waited expectantly upon the wooden platform. They were not numerous, for the gardens are not crowded until the afternoon, but they were fair samples of the kindly, good-humoured north-country folk who take their annual holiday at Northam. Their faces were all upturned now, and they were watching with keen interest a man who was descending the steel framework. It seemed a dangerous, precarious business, but he came as swiftly as an ordinary mortal upon a staircase. “My word!” said the conductor, glancing up. “Jim has got a move on this morning.” “Who is he?” asked Commander Stangate. “That’s Jim Barnes, sir, the best workman that ever went on a scaffold. He fair lives up there. Every bolt and rivet are under his care. He’s a wonder, is Jim.” “But don’t argue religion with him,” said one of the group. The attendant laughed. “Ah, you know him, then,” said he. “No, don’t argue religion with him.” “Why not?” asked the officer. “Well, he takes it very hard, he does. He’s the shining light of his sect.” “It ain’t hard to be that,” said the knowing one. “I’ve heard there are only six folk in the fold. He’s one of those who picture heaven as the exact size of their own back street conventicle and every one else left outside it.” “Better not tell him so while he’s got that hammer in his hand,” said the conductor, in a hurried whisper. “Hallo, Jim, how goes it this morning?”