That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding kitchen company. “I won't have strange men lolling in my house without my knowledge. That's how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it's none of my business to supply 'em with opportunities for getting married.” So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with her and helped her. “It's a burnin' shime,” she said, “cagin' us h'up like h'animals. H'it's a wonder ter me as we h'ever get married. The master thinks that, 'cause we're servants, we ain't got no pashuns.” This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen by the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man's voice when he crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping. “It started Christmas mornin', didn't it, Grice?” It was Cookie speaking. “The door was h'on the latch, the milk was watered, the sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat at first. H'I was that h'angry, I threw a broom at 'er. Not but wot I might 'a known as no cat could water milk if I'd 'a stopped ter thought. And then Master Peter, 'im that's so ginerous, 'e forgets to give anyone 'is Christmas presents. H'it beats creation, so it does. And h'ever since then, though I h'ain't said much abart it, 'cause I didn't want ter git 'is pa h'angry, h'ever since then h'its been goin' h'on. One day h'it's h'eggs missin'. 'Nother day h'it's beef--little nibbles like h'all round. And yer may taik my word for h'it, the little master's h'at the bottom h'of it. What d'yer sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer 'andle crimes, don't yer? Wot's yer sudgestion?” Mr. Somp was the name of Grace's policeman. Mr. Somp thought. “Kid's got a h'appetite, ain't 'e?” he procrastinated. “I 'ad a h'appetite once.--But h'I wouldn't 'a believed it h'of 'im.”