articularly shy of butlers and coachmen and upper servants of that
kind. The butler's sniff and his cold suggestion as to hock slightly
raised Merritt's combative spirit. And the champagne was poor, thin
stuff after all. A jorum of gin and water, or a mug of beer, was what
Merritt's soul longed for.

And what a lot of plate there was on the table and sideboard! Some of it
was gold, too. Merritt's greedy professional eye appraised the collection
at some hundreds of pounds--hundreds of pounds--that is, after the stuff
had been disposed of. In imagination he had already drugged the butler
and was stuffing the plate into his bag.

Henson said very little. He was too busily engaged in watching his
confederate. He wished from the bottom of his heart now that Chris had
never seen Merritt. She was smiling at him now and apparently hanging on
every word. Henson had seen society ladies doing this kind of thing
before with well-concealed contempt. So long as people liked to play his
game for him he had no objection. But this was quite different. Merrit
had warmed a little under the influence of his fifth glass of champagne,
but his eye looked lovingly and longingly in the direction of a silver
spirit-stand on the sideboard. The dinner came to an end at length, to
Henson's great relief, and presently the whole party wandered out to the
terrace. Bell dropped behind with Chris.

"Now is your time," he whispered. "Henson dare not lose sight of Merritt
before he goes to bed, and I'll keep the latter out here for a good long
spell. I've muffled the striker of the telephone so that the bell will
make no noise when you get your call back from Brighton, so that you
must be near enough to the instrument to hear the click of the striker.
Make haste."

Chris dropped back to the library and rapidly fluttered over the leaves
of the "Telephone Directory." She found what she wanted at length and
asked to be put on to Brighton. Then she sat down in an armchair in the
darkness close under the telephone, prepared to wait patiently. She
could just see the men on the terrace, could catch the dull glow red of
their cigars.

Her patience was not unduly tried. At the end of a quarter of an hour the
striker clicked furiously. Chris reached for the receiver and lay back
comfortably in her chair with the diaphragm to her ear. "Are you there?"
she asked, quietly. "Is that you, Mr. Steel?" To her great relief the
answering voice was Steel's own. He seeme