d heavens!" she whispered. "What has happened, Bab?"

"It is happening now, but I cannot explain."

"WHAT is happening?"

"Jane," I whispered, ernestly, "you have known me a long time and I have
always been Trustworthy, have I not?"

She nodded. She is never exactly pretty, and now she had opened her
mouth and forgot to close it.

"Then ask No Questions. Trust me, as I am trusting you." It seemed to
me that Mr. Beecher through his pen at the door, and began to pace the
bath-house. Owing of course to his being in his bare feet, I was not
certain. Jane heard somthing, to, for she clutched my arm.

"Bab," she said, in intence tones, "if you don't explain I shall lose my
mind. I feel now that I am going to shreik."

She looked at me searchingly.

"Sombody is a Prisoner. That's all."

It was the truth, was it not? And was there any reasons for Jane Raleigh
to jump to conclusions as she did, and even to repeat later in Public
that I had told her that my lover had come for me, and that father had
locked him up to prevent my running away with him, imuring him in the
Patten's bath-house? Certainly not.

Just then I saw the boatman coming who looks after our motor boat, and I
tiptoed to him and asked him to go away, and not to come back unless he
had quieter boats and would not whistel. He acted very ugly about it, I
must say, but he went.

When I came back, Jane was sitting thinking, with her forhead all
puckered.

"What I don't understand, Bab," she said, "is, why no noise?"

"Because he is writing," I explained. "Although his clothing has been
taken away, he is writing. I don't think I told you, Jane, but that is
his business. He is a Writer. And if I tell you his name you will faint
with surprise."

She looked at me searchingly.

"Locked up--and writing, and his clothing gone! What's he writing, Bab?
His Will?"

"He is doing his duty to the end, Jane," I said softly. "He is writing
the last Act of a Play. The Company is rehearsing the first two Acts,
and he has to get this one ready, though the Heavens fall."

But to my surprise, she got up and said to me, in a firm voice:

"Either you are crazy, Barbara Archibald, or you think I am. You've
been stuffing me for about a week, and I don't beleive a Word of it. And
you'll apologize to me or I'll never speak to you again."

She said this loudly, and then went away, And Mr. Beecher said, through
the door.

"What the Devil's the row about?"

Perhaps my n