r, and laughed with
simple glee at the joke. "I mean Jones, the new parlourmaid. When I say
new, they are all new, for none of them stay longer than three months."

"Indeed," smiled Harley, who perceived that the old lady was something
of a martinet.

"Indeed, they don't. Think they are ladies nowadays. Four hours off has
that girl had to-day, although she was out on Wednesday. Then she has
the impudence to allow someone to ring her up here at the house; and
finally I discover her upsetting the table after Benson had laid it and
after I had rearranged it."

She glanced indignantly in the direction of the lobby. "Perhaps one
day," she concluded, pathetically, as she walked slowly from the room,
"we shall find a parlourmaid who is a parlourmaid. Good evening, sir."

"Good evening," said Harley, quietly amused to be made the recipient of
these domestic confidences.

He continued to smile for some time after the door had been closed. His
former train of ideas was utterly destroyed, but for this he was not
ungrateful to the housekeeper, since the outstanding disadvantage of
that strange gift resembling prescience was that it sometimes blunted
the purely analytical part of his mind when this should have been at its
keenest. He was now prepared to listen to what Sir Charles had to say
and to judge impartially of its evidential value.

Wandering from side to side of the library, he presently found himself
standing still before the mantelpiece and studying a photograph in
a silver frame which occupied the centre of the shelf. It was the
photograph of an unusually pretty girl; that is to say, of a girl whose
beauty was undeniable, but who belonged to a type widely removed from
that of the ordinary good-looking Englishwoman.

The outline of her face was soft and charming, and there was a
questioning look in her eyes which was alluring and challenging. Her
naive expression was palpably a pose, and her slightly parted lips
promised laughter. She possessed delightfully wavy hair and her neck and
one shoulder, which were bare, had a Grecian purity. Harley discovered
himself to be smiling at the naive lady of the photograph.

"Presumably 'Miss Phil'," he said aloud.

He removed his gaze with reluctance from the fascinating picture, and
dropping into the big lounge chair, he lighted a cigarette. He had just
placed the match in an ash tray when he heard Sir Charles's voice in
the lobby, and a moment later Sir Charles himself ca