"Yes, he is well enough to be moved," said the doctor. "It is very kind
of you, Lady Dorothy, and I will go and telephone at once. Will you stay
with him for a little while?"

He left the room, and they heard his feet go down the narrow stairs. The
cottage door opened and closed.

The two women, the old and the young, peasant and peer's daughter,
looked at each other, and there was in their glance that complete
understanding which can only exist between women.

"Do 'ee mind old Jarge Toms, my lady?"

Lady Dorothy nodded.

"I know, I know! And I warned him! They won't believe, these men! They
think because they are so big and strong that there is nothing that can
hurt them."

"'Twas th' iron that saved un, my lady. 'Twas inside one of John's new
tyres as was lyin' on the ground that us found un. Dogs barkin' wakened
us up. But it'd ha' had un, else----" A sound downstairs sent her flying
to the door. "'Tis the kettle, my lady. John's dinner spilin', an' I
forgettin'."

She hurried out of the room and closed the door.

The sound of their voices seemed to have roused the occupant of the bed.
His eyelids fluttered and opened; his eyes rested full on the girl's
face. For a moment there was no consciousness in their gaze; then a
whimsical ghost of a smile crept about his mouth.

"Go on," he said in a weak voice. "Say it!"

"Say what?" asked Lady Dorothy. She was suddenly aware that her hand was
still on his, but the twitching fingers had closed about hers in a calm,
firm grasp.

"Say 'I told you so'!"

She shook her head with a little smile.

"I told you that cold iron----"

"Cold iron saved me." He told her of the iron hoop on the ground outside
the forge. "You saved me last night."

She disengaged her hand gently.

"I saved you last night--since you say so. But in future----"

Someone was coming up the stairs. Maynard met her eyes with a long look.

"I have no fear," he said. "I have found something better than cold
iron."

The door opened and the doctor came in. He glanced at Maynard's face and
touched his pulse.

"The case is yours, Lady Dorothy!" he said with a little bow.

IX

THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR"

The Boy at the corner of the table flicked the ash of his cigar into the
fire.

"Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared.

"I don't know," the Host reflected thoughtfully. "One hears queer
stories sometimes."

"Which reminds me----" started the Bore.

But before he cou