I dropped laughing into a chair beside Flora. "Anne," she whispered; "who is on the stairs?" "Two Bow Street runners." If you have seen a dove--a dove caught in a gin! "The back stairs!" she urged. "They will be watched too. But let us make sure." I crossed to the tea-room, and, encountering a waiter, drew him aside. Was there a man watching the back entrance? He could not tell me. For a guinea would he find out? He went, and returned in less than a minute. Yes, there was a constable below. "It's just a young gentleman to be put to the horn for debt," I explained, recalling the barbarous and, to me, still unmeaning phrase. "I'm no speiring," replied the waiter. I made my way back, and was not a little disgusted to find my chair occupied by the unconscionable Chevenix. "My dear Miss Flora, you are unwell!" Indeed, she was pale enough, poor child, and trembling. "Major, she will be swooning in another minute. Get her to the tea-room, quick! while I fetch Miss Gilchrist. She must be taken home." "It is nothing," she faltered: "it will pass. Pray do not--" As she glanced up, she caught my meaning. "Yes, yes: I will go home." She took the Major's arm, while I hurried to the card-room. As luck would have it, the old lady was in the act of rising from the green table, having just cut out from a rubber. Mr. Robbie was her partner; and I saw (and blessed my star for the first time that night) the little heap of silver, which told that she had been winning. "Miss Gilchrist," I whispered, "Miss Flora is faint: the heat of the room--" "I've not observed it. The ventilation is considered pairfect." "She wishes to be taken home." With fine composure she counted back her money, piece by piece, into a velvet reticule. "Twelve and sixpence," she proclaimed. "Ye held good cards, Mr. Robbie. Well, Mosha the Viscount, we'll go and see about it." I led her to the tea-room: Mr. Robbie followed. Flora rested on a sofa in a truly dismal state of collapse, while the Major fussed about her with a cup of tea. "I have sent Ronald for the carriage," he announced. "H'm," said Miss Gilchrist, eyeing him oddly. "Well, it's your risk. Ye'd best hand me the teacup, and get our shawls from the lobby. You have the tickets. Be ready for us at the top of the stairs." No sooner was the Major gone than, keeping an eye on her niece, this imperturbable lady stirred the tea and drank it down herself. As she drained the cup--her back for the moment being turned on Mr. Robbie--I was aware of a facial contortion. Was the tea (as children say) going the wrong way? No: I believe--aid me Apollo, and the Nine! I believe--though I have never dared, and shall never dare to ask--that Miss Gilchrist was doing her best to wink!