horsewhip him," Eric resumed jerkily.

She considered him curiously with her head on one side.

"You know, I don't feel afraid of you," she told him. "I could trust you
anywhere. You're not old enough to understand that yet, but you will."

"Then for the present it's irrelevant. Come along, Lady Barbara."

He advanced a step, but she only smiled at him without moving. Eric
looked angrily round, but the stream of passers-by, though sluggish,
shewed no signs of drying up. A clock inside the hall began to chime
midnight, and he turned on his heel. As he did so, a taxi turned into
the street, and an officer climbed gingerly out and hoisted himself
across the pavement on two crutches. Barbara coughed and drew her shawl
round her until half her face was hidden.

"But, Eric dear, you can't have _lost_ the key," she expostulated,
purposefully clear.

Over the shawl her eyes were gleaming with mischief and triumph.

The officer looked quickly from one to the other.

"Hullo! You locked out?" he enquired sympathetically. "Rotten luck!
Here, let me put you out of your misery! Hope you haven't been waiting
long?"

"That _is_ sweet of you," said Barbara. "Long? I seem to have been
standing here all day. Come on, Eric; I'm frightfully tired; I want to
sit down."

She walked into the hall, beckoning him with a jerk of her head. The
officer bade them good-night and limped to a ground-floor flat at the
end.

"I'm going to my club, Lady Barbara," said Eric with slow distinctness
from the door-step.

"Then I shall bang on every door I see until I find your flat," she
retorted promptly. "I've told you, I want some soda-water. And,
Eric----"

"Yes, Lady Barbara."

"Eric, I always get what I want. Who lives here, do you suppose? We'll
try his door first."

Eric came in and walked to the foot of the stairs. Barbara slipped her
arm through his, but he shook it away.

"I'm tired," she explained. "I wish you wouldn't be so rough with me."

She replaced her arm, and, rather than engage in a childish brawl, Eric
left it there, though the touch of her fingers on his wrist set his
blood tingling. They walked slowly, for he was trying to set his racing
thoughts in order. This, then, was the true Lady Barbara Neave. He had
never believed the fantastic stories about her, but she was now
gratuitously shewing him that she was of those who stopped at nothing.

He felt the sudden unpitying disgust of a disappointed idealist. She
was