IT was impossible that Mirabelle Leicester could fail to realize the serious danger in which she stood. Why she had incurred the enmity of Oberzohn, for what purpose this man was anxious to keep her under his eye, she could not even guess. It was a relief to wake up in the early morning, as she did, and find Joan sleeping in the same room; for though she had many reasons for mistrusting her, there was something about this doll-faced girl that made an appeal to her. Joan was lying on the bed fully dressed, and at the sound of the creaking bed she turned and got up, fastening her skirt. “Well, how do you like your new home?” she asked, with an attempt at joviality, which she was far from feeling, in spite of Monty’s assurances. “I’ve seen better,” said Mirabelle coolly. “I’ll bet you have!” Joan stretched and yawned; then, opening one of the cupboards, took a shovelful of coal and threw it into the furnace, clanging the iron door. “That’s my job,” she said humorously, “to keep you warm.” “How long am I going to be kept here?” “Five days,” was the surprising answer. “Why five?” asked Mirabelle curiously. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll tell you,” said Joan. She fixed a plug in the wall and turned on the small electric fire. Disappearing, she came back with a kettle which she placed on top of the ring. “The view’s not grand, but the food’s good,” she said, with a gaiety that Mirabelle was now sure was forced. “You’re with these people, of course—Dr. Oberzohn and Newton?” “Mister Newton,” corrected Joan. “Yes, I’m his fiancée. We’re going to be married when things get a little better,” she said vaguely, “and there’s no use in your getting sore with me because I helped to bring you here. Monty’s told me all about it. They’re going to do you no harm at all.” “Then why——” began Mirabelle. “He’ll tell you,” interrupted Joan, “sooner or later. The old man, or—or—well, Monty isn’t in this: he’s only obliging Oberzohn.” With one thing Mirabelle agreed: it was a waste of time to indulge in recriminations or to reproach the girl for her supreme treachery. After all, Joan owed nothing to her, and had been from the first a tool employed for her detention. It would have been as logical for a convict to reproach the prison guard. “How do you come to be doing this sort of thing?” she asked, watching the girl making tea. “Where do you get ‘this sort of thing’ from?” demanded Joan. “If you suppose that I spend my life chaperoning females, you’ve got another guess coming. Scared, aren’t you?” She looked across at Mirabelle and the girl shook her head. “Not really.” “I should be,” confessed Joan. “Do you mind condensed milk? There’s no other. Yes, I should be writhing under the table, knowing something about Oberzohn.” “If I were Oberzohn,” said Mirabelle with spirit, “I should be hiding in a deep hole where the Four Just Men would not find me.”