Bundle's eyes brightened. She had found what she was looking for. This, she felt sure, was the meeting place of the secret organization. The place was almost perfectly planned. It looked so innocent--you could reach it just by stepping through from the gaming room, or you could arrive there by the secret entrance--and any secrecy, any precautions were easily explained by the gaming going on in the next room. Idly, as these thoughts passed through her mind, she drew a finger across the marble of the mantelpiece. Alfred saw and misinterpreted the action. "You won't find no dirt, not to speak of," he said. "Mr. Mosgorovsky he ordered the place to be swept out this morning, and I did it while he waited." "Oh!" said Bundle, thinking very hard. "This morning, eh?" "Has to be done sometimes," said Alfred. "Though the room's never what you might call used." Next minute he received a shock. "Alfred," said Bundle, "you've got to find me a place in this room where I can hide." Alfred looked at her in dismay. "But it's impossible, my lady. You'll get me into trouble and I'll lose my job." "You'll lose it anyway when you go to prison," said Bundle unkindly. "But as a matter of fact, you needn't worry, nobody will know anything about it." "And there ain't no place," wailed Alfred. "Look round for yourself, your ladyship, if you don't believe me." Bundle was forced to admit that there was something in this argument. But she had the true spirit of one undertaking adventures. "Nonsense," she said with determination. "There has _got_ to be a place." "But there ain't one," wailed Alfred. Never had a room shown itself more unpropitious for concealment. Dingy blinds were drawn down over the dirty window panes, and there were no curtains. The window sill outside, which Bundle examined, was about four inches wide! Inside the room there were the table, the chairs and the cupboards. The second cupboard had a key in the lock. Bundle went across and pulled it open. Inside were shelves covered with an odd assortment of glasses and crockery. "Surplus stuff as we don't use," explained Alfred. "You can see for yourself, my lady, there's no place here as a cat could hide." But Bundle was examining the shelves. "Flimsy work," she said. "Now then, Alfred, have you got a cupboard downstairs where you could shove all this glass? You have? Good. Then get a tray and start to carry it down at once. Hurry--there's no time to lose." "You can't, my lady. And it's getting late, too. The cooks will be here any minute now." "Mr. Mosgo-what-not doesn't come till later, I suppose?" "He's never here much before midnight. But, oh, my lady--" "Don't talk so much, Alfred," said Bundle. "Get that tray. If you stay here arguing, you _will_ get into trouble." Doing what is familiarly known as "wringing his hands," Alfred departed. Presently he returned with a tray, and having by now realized that his protests were useless, he worked with a nervous energy quite surprising.