suring sort. Christopher had kept entirely away from him; he had not
seen Christopher at all since the discussion of the afternoon, which
Miss Pett had terminated so abruptly. He had seen Miss Pett twice or
thrice--Miss Pett's attitude on each occasion had been that of injured
innocence. She had brought him his tea in silence, his supper with no
more than a word. It was a nice supper--she set it before him with an
expression which seemed to say that however badly she herself was
treated, she would do her duty by others. And Mallalieu, seeing that
expression, had not been able to refrain from one of his sneering
remarks.

"Think yourself very badly done to, don't you, missis!" he had exclaimed
with a laugh. "Think I'm a mean 'un, what?"

"I express no opinion, Mr. Mallalieu," replied Miss Pett, frigidly and
patiently. "I think it better for people to reflect. A night's
reflection," she continued as she made for the door, "oft brings wisdom,
even to them as doesn't usually cultivate it."

Mallalieu had no objection to the cultivation of wisdom--for his own
benefit, and he was striving to produce something from the process as he
lay there, waiting. But he said to himself that it was easy enough to be
wise after the event--and for him the event had happened. He was in the
power of these two, whom he had long since recognized as an
unscrupulous woman and a shifty man. They had nothing to do but hand
him over to the police if they liked: for anything he knew, Chris Pett
might already have played false and told the police of affairs at the
cottage. And yet on deeper reflection, he did not think that
possible--for it was evident that aunt and nephew were after all they
could get, and they would get nothing from the police authorities, while
they might get a good deal from him. But--what did they expect to get
from him? He had been a little perplexed by their attitude when he asked
them if they expected him to carry a lot of money on him--a fugitive.
Was it possible--the thought came to him like a thunderclap in the
darkness--that they knew, or had some idea, of what he really had on
him? That Miss Pett had drugged him every night he now felt sure--well,
then, in that case how did he know that she hadn't entered his room and
searched his belongings, and especially the precious waistcoat?

Mallalieu had deposited that waistcoat in the same place every night--on
a chair which stood at the head of his bed. He had laid it folded