never paid) we descended
fearsomely to the Barlows' quarters. Having roused the old couple and
got them to put on some clothes, a search-party of four perambulated the
house. So far as we could see, however, the place was innocent of spies;
and at length we crept into bed again.

We didn't mean or expect to sleep, of course, but we must all have
"dropped off," otherwise we should have smelt the smoke long before we
did smell it. As it was, the great hall slowly burned until Barlow's
usual getting-up hour. Shelagh and I knew nothing until Barl came
pounding at my door. Then the stinging of our nostrils and eyelids was a
fire alarm!

It's wonderful how quickly you can do things when you have to! Ten
minutes later I was running as fast as I could go to the village, and
might have earned a prize for a two-mile sprint if I hadn't raced alone.
By the time the fire-engines reached the Abbey it was too late to save a
whole side of the glorious old "linen fold" panelling of the hall. The
celebrated staircase was injured, too, and several suits of historic
armour, as well as a number of antique weapons.

Fortunately the portraits were all in the picture gallery, and the fire
was stopped before it had swept beyond the hall. Where it had started
was soon learned, but "_how_" remained a mystery, for shavings and
oil-tins had apparently been stuffed behind the panelling. The theory of
the police was, that the spy (no one doubted the spy's existence now!)
had seen that the "game was up," since the place would be strictly
watched from that night on. Out of sheer spite, the female Hun had
attempted to burn down the famous old house before she lost her chance;
or had perhaps already made preparations to destroy it when her other
work should be ended.

There was a hue and cry over the county in pursuit of the fugitive,
which echoed as far as London; but the woman had escaped, and not even a
trace of her was found.

Grandmother openly claimed that HER inspiration in sending for some
dust-sheets had not only saved the Abbey, but England. It was most
agreeable to bask in self-respect and the praise of friends. When,
however, we were bombarded by newspaper men, who took revenge for
Grandmother's snubs by publishing interviews with Sir "Jim" (by this
time Major Courtenaye, D. S. O., M. C., unluckily at home with a
"Blighty" wound), the haughty lady lost her temper.

It was bad enough, she complained, to have the Abbey turned prematurel