ing their supplies."

"Good! Then we'll release Mother Fagin long enough to let her cook some
of them."

He strolled to the bedroom door. On a chair facing it the woman sat and
gazed at him with her fierce eyes.

"Would you like a little exercise?" he politely inquired. There was no
change of expression in the hostile face. "Because if you would," he
went on, "and if you'll give me your word not to cry out, give any kind
of alarm or signal, or start anything whatever, I'll take that bandage
off your mouth, and let you cook lunch for us and for yourself."

The fierce eyes set, then wavered. He waited patiently. At last the head
nodded, and he expeditiously untied the bandage.

"The very best you've got, please," he instructed. "And I _hope_ you can
cook. If you can't, I'll have to do it myself. I'm rather gifted that
way."

"I can cook," avowed the old woman, sullenly.

"Good work! Then go on your joyous way. But if you feel an impulse to
invite into your kitchen any of the gentlemen out in the grounds, or to
release the secretary, restrain it. They wouldn't like it in here. They
wouldn't like it at all."

A strange grimace twisted the woman's sardonic features. He interpreted
it rightly.

"I'm glad you agree with me," he said. "Now, brook-trout, please, and
broiled chickens, and early strawberries and clotted cream."

She looked at him with a return of the stoic expression that was her
habitual one.

"We ain't got any of those things," she declared.

"We ain't?" Her guest was pained. "What have we got?"

"We got ham and eggs and lettuce and milk and coffee and squash pie."

He sighed.

"They will do," he said resignedly. "Do you think you could have them
ready in five minutes?"

The luncheon was a cheerful meal, for Laurie made it so. When it was
finished he went to the kitchen window, opened it, and carefully
arranged several hot ham sandwiches in a row.

"For the birdies," he explained. "For the cold little birdies out in the
grounds."

He even chirped invitingly to the "birdies," but these latter,
throughout his visit, showed a coy reluctance to approach the house. He
caught another odd grimace on the features of the old woman, who was
now washing the dishes.

"We won't confine you to any one room this afternoon," he told her.
"Wander where your heart leads you. But remember, you're on parole. Like
ourselves, you must forego all communication with the glad outer world.
And leave the secretar