should order for dinner, when the inevitable happened. The
pert maidservant rushed in, and in a voice squeaky with tragedy, warned
them of the immediate approach of Miss Monica Morton.

Of course, they ought to have expected it. Nobody except two utter
idiots would have sat philandering upon the sofa in what might be termed
"the lion's den," knowing that "the lion" might at any moment walk in
with her shopping-basket and catch them. The surprise and horror
depicted on their countenances would have commanded a good salary at a
cinema studio. Mr. Montague Ponsonby was for bluffing it, but Dorothea's
astute female brains seized a readier way out of the situation. She laid
her lover flat upon the sofa, and covered him hastily with her traveling
rug, then, opening her suitcase, flung its contents on the floor, and
knelt down in the midst of a muddle of shoes, nightdresses, and other
paraphernalia.

Aunt Monica exhibited a natural amazement at finding her niece
conducting her unpacking in the sitting-room, instead of upstairs, but
accepted her explanations with wonderful indulgence. She professed
herself tired with shopping, and moved towards the sofa to rest.

Dorothea, with sudden solicitude, sprang up to offer her a chair, and
made every human effort to lead her away from the couch. She was a
persistent, not to say obstinate, old lady, however, and she meant to
have her own way in her own house. Waving her niece aside, and
proclaiming her weariness, she sank down heavily upon the sofa. The
result was tragic, for a stifled groan resounded through the room, and
the top-boots of the luckless Montague Ponsonby kicked wildly in the
air. Miss Morton, naturally alarmed, and instantly jumping to the
conclusion that he was a burglar, screamed loudly for assistance, and a
passing policeman hastened to her call.

It is wonderful how efficient and handy the police always are on the
stage. They are invariably at the right place at the right moment, and
always step in just in time to stop a murder, prevent an explosion, or
rescue the heroine. Dulcie, who in a long blue coat, with a paper helmet
and a strap under her chin, represented the majesty of the law, hauled
the squirming Montague from the couch, and secured his wrists tightly
with a piece of clothes line supplied by the pert servant, who ought to
have been ashamed of herself for going back on her promise to help the
lovers, but probably felt a deeper obligation to the policema