through the ventilator above the fanlight.

She heard the doctor say something and then a voice which she had not
heard before.

"Don't worry--I've a wonderful memory, by Jove!..."

The murmur of the doctor did not reach her, but----

"Yes, yes ... Scobbs' Hotel, Red Horse Valley ... know the place well
... good night, dear old thing...."

A door banged, an uncertain footstep died away in the well of the stairs
below, and she was left to recover from her amazement.

CHAPTER VII

PLAIN WORDS FROM MR. BEALE

Oliva Cresswell did not feel at all sleepy, so she discovered, by the
time she was ready for bed. To retire in that condition of wakefulness
meant another sleepless night, and she slipped a kimono over her, found
a book and settled into the big wicker-chair under the light for the
half-hour's reading which would reduce her to the necessary state of
drowsiness. The book at any other time would have held her attention,
but now she found her thoughts wandering. On the other side of the wall
(she regarded it with a new interest) was the young man who had so
strangely intruded himself into her life. Or was he out? What would a
man like that do with his evenings? He was not the sort of person who
could find any pleasure in making a round of music-halls or sitting up
half the night in a card-room.

She heard a dull knock, and it came from the wall.

Mr. Beale was at home then, he had pushed a chair against the wall, or
he was knocking in nails at this hour of the night.

"Thud--thud--thud"--a pause--"thud, tap, thud, tap."

The dull sound was as if made by a fist, the tap by a finger-tip.

It was repeated.

Suddenly the girl jumped up with a little laugh. He was signalling to
her and had sent "O.C."--her initials.

She tapped three times with her finger, struck once with the flat of her
hand and tapped again. She had sent the "Understood" message.

Presently he began and she jotted the message on the margin of her book.

"Most urgent: Don't use soap. Bring it to office."

She smiled faintly. She expected something more brilliant in the way of
humour even from Mr. Beale. She tapped "acknowledged" and went to bed.

"Matilda, my innocent child," she said to herself, as she snuggled up
under the bed-clothes, "exchanging midnight signals with a lodger is
neither proper nor lady-like."

She had agreed with herself that in spite of the latitude she was
allowed in the matter of office hours, that she