Now what in the world had Peter Tortue remained behind for? For no harm, that was evident, since I owed my life to his good offices last night. I was to remember that it was he who saved me. I was, then, to make some return. But what return? I threw my pillow at Parmiter's head. "Deuce take you, Dicky! My bed was not such a plaguey restful place before that it needed you to rumple it further. Well, since I mayn't sleep late i' the morning like a gentleman, I'll get up." I tried to put together some sort of plausible explanation which would serve for Helen Mayle while I was dressing. But I could not hit upon one, and besides Parmiter made such a to-do over brushing my clothes this morning that that alone was enough to drive all reasoning out of one's head. "Dick," said I as he handed me my coat, "you have had, if my memory serves me, some experience of womenfolk." Dick nodded his head in a mournful fashion. "Mother!" said he. "Precisely," said I. "Now, here's a delicate question. Do you always tell womenfolk the truth?" "No," said he, stoutly. "Do you tell them--shall we say quibbles,--then?" "Quibbles?" said Dick, opening his mouth. "It is not a fruit, Dicky," said I, "so you need not keep it open. By quibbles I mean lies. Do you tell your womenfolk lies, when the truth is not good for them to know?" "No," said Dick, as steadily as before, "for they finds you out." "Precisely," I agreed. "But since you neither tell the truth nor tell lies, what in the world do you do?" "Well," answered Dick, "I say that it's a secret which mother isn't to know for a couple of days." "I see. And when the couple of days has gone? "Then mother has forgotten all about the secret." I reflected for a moment or two. "Dick." "Yes." "Did you ever try that plan with Miss Helen?" "No," said he, shaking his head. "I will," said I, airily, "or something like it." "Something like it would be best," said Dick. The story which I told to Helen was not after all very like it. I said: "The watchers have gone and gone for ever. They were here not for any revenge, but for their profit. There was a treasure in St. Helen's which Cullen Mayle was to show them the way to--if they could catch him and force him. They had some claim to it--I showed them the way." "You?" she exclaimed. "How?" "That I cannot tell you," said I. "I would beg you not to ask, but to let my silence content you. I could not tell you the truth and I do not think that I could invent a story to suit the occasion which would not ring false. The consequence is the one thing which concerns us, and there is no doubt of it. The watchers did not watch for an opportunity of revenge and they are gone." "Very well," she said. "I was right after all, you see. The hand stretched out of the dark has done this service. For it is your doing that they are gone?"