weapon and alarm the whole house. But I don't
want to do that, for the sake of the other man. He is so very
respectable, you know, and anything unconventional may be so awkward for
him. Yes, it is just as I expected. He is coming up the ivy to
investigate himself. Go!"

The revolver covered Littimer quite steadily. He could see into the blue
rim, and he was conscious of strange cold sensations down his spine. A
revolver is not a pretty thing at the best of times; it is doubly
hazardous in the hands of a woman.

"What do you want with me?" he asked.

"My dear man, I want to do nothing with you. Only do as you are told
and--there! The other man is coming up the ivy. He can't understand the
light and you not returning. He imagines that you are looking in the
wrong place. Please go."

Littimer backed before the weapon, backed until he was in the doorway.
Suddenly the girl gave him a push, shut the door to, and turned the key
in the lock. Almost at the same instant another figure loomed large in
the window-frame.

CHAPTER XXVII

SLIGHTLY FARCICAL

Something bulky was struggling to get through the window. Half hidden in
the shadow, Christabel watched with the deepest interest. If she had been
afraid at first that sensation had entirely departed by this time. From
the expression of her face she might have been enjoying the novel
situation. It was certainly not without a suggestion of the farcical.

The burly figure contrived to squeeze through the narrow casement at
length and stood breathing loudly in the corridor. It was not a pleasant
sight that met Christabel's gaze--a big man with a white, set face and
rolling eyes and a stiff bandage about his throat. Evidently the intruder
was utterly exhausted, for he dropped into a chair and nursed his head
between his hands.

"Now what has become of that fool?" he muttered. "Ah!"

He looked round him uneasily, but his expression changed as his eyes fell
on the Rembrandt. He had the furtive look of a starving man who picks up
a purse whilst the owner is still in sight. He staggered towards the
picture and endeavoured to take it gently from the support. He tried
again and again, and then in a paroxysm of rage he tore at the
frame-work.

"I guess that it can't be done," Christabel said, drawlingly. "See,
stranger?"

Reginald Henson fairly gasped. As he turned round the ludicrous mixture
of cunning and confusion, anger and vexatious alarm on his face caused
the