THE prediction that Leon Gonsalez had made was not wholly fulfilled, though he himself had helped to prevent the supreme distress he prophesied. When Mirabelle Leicester awoke in the morning, her head was thick and dull, and for a long time she lay between sleeping and waking, trying to bring order to the confusion of her thoughts, her eyes on the ceiling towards a gnarled oak beam which she had seen before somewhere; and when at last she summoned sufficient energy to raise herself on her elbow, she looked upon the very familiar surroundings of her own pretty little room. Heavytree Farm! What a curious dream she had had! A dream filled with fleeting visions of old men with elongated heads, of dance music and a crowded ball-room, of a slightly over-dressed man who had been very polite to her at dinner. Where did she dine? She sat up in bed, holding her throbbing head. Again she looked round the room and slowly, out of her dreams, emerged a few tangible facts. She was still in a state of bewilderment when the door opened and Aunt Alma came in, and the unprepossessing face of her relative was accentuated by her look of anxiety. “Hullo, Alma!” said Mirabelle dully. “I’ve had such a queer dream.” Alma pressed her lips tightly together as she placed a tray on a table by the side of the bed. “I think it was about that advertisement I saw.” And then, with a gasp: “How did I come here?” “They brought you,” said Alma. “The nurse is downstairs having her breakfast. She’s a nice woman and keeps press-cuttings.” “The nurse?” asked Mirabelle in bewilderment. “You arrived here at three o’clock in the morning in a motor-car. You had a nurse with you.” Alma enumerated the circumstances in chronological order. “And two men. First one of the men got out and knocked at the door. I was worried to death. In fact, I’d been worried all the afternoon, ever since I had your wire telling me not to come up to London.” “But I didn’t send any such wire,” replied the girl. “After I came down, the man—he was really a gentleman and very pleasantly spoken—told me that you’d been taken ill and a nurse had brought you home. They then carried you, the two men and the nurse, upstairs and laid you on the bed, and nurse and I undressed you. I simply couldn’t get you to wake up: all you did was to talk about the orangeade.” “I remember! It was so bitter, and Lord Evington let me drink some of his. And then I . . . I don’t know what happened after that,” she said, with a little grimace. “Mr. Gonsalez ordered the car, got the nurse from a nursing home,” explained Alma. “Gonsalez! Not my Gonsalez—the—the Four Just Men Gonsalez?” she asked in amazement. “I’m sure it was Gonsalez: they made no secret about it. You can see the gentlemen who brought you: he’s about the house somewhere. I saw him in Heavytree Lane not five minutes ago, strolling up and down and smoking. A pipe,” added Alma.