The girl got out of bed; her knees were curiously weak under her, but she managed to stagger to the window, and, pushing open the casement still farther, looked out across the patchwork quilt of colour. The summer flowers were in bloom; the delicate scents came up on the warm morning air, and she stood for a moment, drinking in great draughts of the exquisite perfume, and then, with a sigh, turned back to the waiting Alma. “I don’t know how it all happened and what it’s about, but my word, Alma, I’m glad to be back! That dreadful man . . . ! We lunched at the Ritz-Carlton. . . . I never want to see another restaurant or a ball-room or Chester Square, or anything but old Heavytree!” She took the cup of tea from Alma’s hand, drank greedily, and put it down with a little gasp. “That was wonderful! Yes, the tea was too, but I’m thinking about Gonsalez. If it should be he!” “I don’t see why you should get excited over a man who’s committed I don’t know how many murders.” “Don’t be silly, Alma!” scoffed the girl. “The Just Men have never murdered, any more than a judge and jury murder.” The room was still inclined to go round, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could condense the two Almas who stood before her into one tangible individual. “There’s a gentleman downstairs: he’s been waiting since twelve.” And when she asked, she was to learn, to her dismay, that it was half-past one. “I’ll be down in a quarter of an hour,” she said recklessly. “Who is it?” “I’ve never heard of him before, but he’s a gentleman,” was the unsatisfactory reply. “They didn’t want to let him come in.” “Who didn’t?” “The gentlemen who brought you here in the night.” Mirabelle stared at her. “You mean . . . they’re guarding the house?” “That’s how it strikes me,” said Alma bitterly. “Why they should interfere with us, I don’t know. Anyway, they let him in. Mr. Johnson Lee.” The girl frowned. “I don’t know the name,” she said. Alma walked to the window. “There’s his car,” she said, and pointed. It was just visible, standing at the side of the road beyond the box hedge, a long-bodied Rolls, white with dust. The chauffeur was talking to a strange man, and from the fact that he was smoking a pipe Mirabelle guessed that this was one of her self-appointed custodians. She had her bath, and with the assistance of the nurse, dressed and came shakily down the stairs. Alma was waiting in the brick-floored hall. “He wants to see you alone,” she said in a stage whisper. “I don’t know whether I ought to allow it, but there’s evidently something wrong. These men prowling about the house have got thoroughly on my nerves.”