“Frightened, Lady Moron?” Her ladyship nodded. There was certainly nothing in her voice to indicate her fear. She picked and chose her words with characteristic care. “I can’t explain why, but I am frightened--of certain people. If you care to remain with me, I will raise your salary, and I am quite willing that your friend should sleep in the house.” “My friend?” asked the surprised Lois. “Do you mean Miss Smith?” Again the countess nodded, her dark eyes never leaving the girl’s face. Lois hesitated. “That might be very--very awkward for you,” she said. The countess waved a flashing hand. “I have considered the matter in all its aspects, and if it is agreeable to you and your friend, I will have another bed put into your room. Perhaps you would like to see Miss Smith and discover her opinions on the subject? I will have the car ready for you in a quarter of an hour.” Looking over the edge of the wire blinds, Lizzy Smith saw the glistening limousine pull up at the door, and Lois alight, and, defiant of all the rules of the establishment, she ran out of the office and came half-way down the stairs to meet the visitor. In a few words Lois told her of Lady Moron’s proposal. “Gee whiz!” said Lizzy, flabbergasted. “You don’t mean that?” She gripped Lois by the arm and pulled her upstairs. “Come right along to the ’phone!” she hissed, “and tell her royal highness that I’ll be on the mat at six!” Chapter Twelve Lois did not go into the office; she left her friend on the threshold and went on to the appointment she sought. Leaving the car in Parliament Street, she walked down Whitehall to the Home Office building, and, filling in a blank, took her place in the waiting-room. There was very little possibility, she told herself that the august Under-Secretary, with whom she craved an interview, would grant her that privilege, in spite of the pressing nature of the note which she had sent with the official form. She began to despair and was looking round at the waiting-room clock for the tenth time, when a messenger came for her. “Miss Reddle?” he asked. “Will you follow me?” Her heart beat a little faster as he knocked on an imposing door, and, opening it, announced her name. An elderly man, who was sitting at the far end of a big room, his back to an empty fireplace, an immense desk before him, half rose from his chair. “Sit down, Miss Reddle,” he said, with official brusqueness. “I read your note, and I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I had an important conference here.” And then, without further preliminary: “You say that Mrs. Pinder is your mother?” “Yes, sir, I am certain of that.” There was a big folder before him, and this he opened.