Even had she wished to, or even had the name been overlooked once, she could not have escaped it. For Jonas Scobbs was the proprietor of Scobbs' Hotel in Falling Star City; of the Bellevue in Snakefence, of the Palace Hotel in Portage. After awhile it began to lose its novelty and she accepted the discovery of unsuspected properties of Mr. Scobbs as inevitable. She filled in the last ruled sheet and blotted it, gathered the sheets together and fastened them with a clip. She yawned as she rose and realized that her previous night's sleep had been fitful. She wondered as she began to undress if she would dream of Scobbs or--no, she didn't want to dream of big-headed men with white faces, and the thought awoke a doubt in her mind. Had she bolted the door of the flat? She went along the passage in her stockinged feet, shot the bolts smoothly and was aware of voices outside. They came to her clearly through the ventilator above the fanlight. She heard the doctor say something and then a voice which she had not heard before. "Don't worry--I've a wonderful memory, by Jove!..." The murmur of the doctor did not reach her, but---- "Yes, yes ... Scobbs' Hotel, Red Horse Valley ... know the place well ... good night, dear old thing...." A door banged, an uncertain footstep died away in the well of the stairs below, and she was left to recover from her amazement. CHAPTER VII PLAIN WORDS FROM MR. BEALE Oliva Cresswell did not feel at all sleepy, so she discovered, by the time she was ready for bed. To retire in that condition of wakefulness meant another sleepless night, and she slipped a kimono over her, found a book and settled into the big wicker-chair under the light for the half-hour's reading which would reduce her to the necessary state of drowsiness. The book at any other time would have held her attention, but now she found her thoughts wandering. On the other side of the wall (she regarded it with a new interest) was the young man who had so strangely intruded himself into her life. Or was he out? What would a man like that do with his evenings? He was not the sort of person who could find any pleasure in making a round of music-halls or sitting up half the night in a card-room. She heard a dull knock, and it came from the wall. Mr. Beale was at home then, he had pushed a chair against the wall, or he was knocking in nails at this hour of the night. "Thud--thud--thud"--a pause--"thud, tap, thud, tap." The dull sound was as if made by a fist, the tap by a finger-tip. It was repeated. Suddenly the girl jumped up with a little laugh. He was signalling to her and had sent "O.C."--her initials. She tapped three times with her finger, struck once with the flat of her hand and tapped again. She had sent the "Understood" message. Presently he began and she jotted the message on the margin of her book. "Most urgent: Don't use soap. Bring it to office."