“Of _course_ they’re at home!” said Lady Beach-Mandarin. “Fancy that—that—that _navigable_—trying to shut the door on us!” For a moment the two brightly excited ladies surveyed each other and then Lady Beach-Mandarin, with a quickness of movement wonderful in one so abundant, began to open first one and then another of the various doors that opened into the long hall-living room. At a peculiar little cry from Miss Garradice she turned from a contemplation of the long low study in which so much of the Euphemia books had been written, to discover Sir Isaac behind her, closely followed by an agonized Snagsby. “A-a-a-a-h!” she cried, with both hands extended, “and so you’ve come in, Sir Isaac! That’s perfectly delightful. This is my friend Miss Garradice, who’s _dying_ to see anything you’ve left of poor Euphemia’s garden. And _how_ is dear Lady Harman?” For some crucial moments Sir Isaac was unable to speak and regarded his visitors with an expression that was unpretendingly criminal. Then he found speech. “You can’t,” he said. “It—can’t be managed.” He shook his head; his lips were whitely compressed. “But all the way from London, Sir Isaac!” “Lady Harman’s ill,” lied Sir Isaac. “She mustn’t be disturbed. Everything has to be kept quiet. See? Not even shouting. Not even ordinarily raised voices. A voice like yours—might kill her. That’s why Snagsby here said we were not at home. We aren’t at home—not to anyone.” Lady Beach-Mandarin was baffled. “Snagsby,” said Sir Isaac, “open that door.” “But can’t I see her—just for a moment?” Sir Isaac’s malignity had softened a little at the prospect of victory. “Absolutely impossible,” he said. “Everything disturbs her, every tiny thing. You——You’d be certain to.” Lady Beach-Mandarin looked at her companion and it was manifest that she was at the end of her resources. Miss Garradice after the fashion of highly strung spinsters suddenly felt disappointed in her leader. It wasn’t, her silence intimated, for her to offer suggestions. The ladies were defeated. When at last that stiff interval ended their dresses rustled doorward, and Sir Isaac broke out into the civilities of a victor.... It was only when they were a mile away from Black Strand that fluent speech returned to Lady Beach-Mandarin. “The little—Crippen,” she said. “He’s got her locked up in some cellar.... Horrid little face he has! He looked like a rat at bay.” “I think perhaps if we’d done _differently_,” said Miss Garradice in a tone of critical irresponsibility. “I’ll write to her. That’s what I’ll do,” said Lady Beach-Mandarin contemplating her next step. “I’m really—concerned. And didn’t you feel—something sinister. That butler-man’s expression—a kind of round horror.” That very evening she told it all—it was almost the trial trip of the story—to Mr. Brumley....