rked in the country, and she was as wise as she had
been before.

But she must get rid of old Jaggs, she thought, as she switched off the
light and kicked out the innumerable water-bottles, with which Mrs.
Morgan, in mistaken kindness, had encumbered the bed ... old Jaggs must
go ... he was a nuisance....

She woke with a start from a dreamless sleep. The clock in the hall was
striking three. She realised this subconsciously. Her eyes were fixed on
the window, which was open at the bottom. Mrs. Morgan had pulled it
down at the top, but now it was wide open, and her heart began to thump,
thump, rapidly. Jaggs! He was her first thought. She would never have
believed that she could have thought of that old man with such a warm
glow of thankfulness. There was nothing to be seen. The storm of the
early night had passed over, and a faint light came into the room from
the waning moon. And then she saw the curtains move, and opened her
mouth to scream, but fear had paralysed her voice, and she lay staring
at the hangings, incapable of movement or sound. As she watched the
curtain she saw it move again, and a shape appeared faintly against the
gloomy background.

The spell was broken. She swung herself out of the opposite side of the
bed, and raced to the door, but the man was before her. Before she could
scream, a big hand gripped her throat and flung her back against the
rail of the bed.

Horrified she stared into the cruel face that leered down at her, and
felt the grip tighten. And then as she looked into the face she saw a
sudden grimace, and sensed the terror in his eyes. The hand relaxed; he
bubbled something thickly and fell sideways against the bed. And now she
saw. A man had come through the doorway, a tall man, with a fair beard
and eyes that danced with insane joy.

He came slowly toward her, wiping on his cuff the long-handled knife
that had sent her assailant to the floor.

He was mad. She knew it instinctively, and remembered in a hazy,
confused way, a paragraph she had read about an escaped lunatic. She
tried to dash past him to the open door, but he caught her in the crook
of his left arm, and pressed her to him, towering head and shoulders
over her.

"You have no right to sit on a court martial, madam," he said with
uncanny politeness, and at that moment the light in the room was
switched on and Jaggs appeared in the doorway, his bearded lips parted
in an ugly grin, a long-barrelled pistol in his left