r said he was going--straight to Printing House
Square to get that abominable paragraph contradicted. I told him
that he was to return to-night and bring me his assurance that it was
contradicted--either that, or never to enter this house again. . . .
And now, Roddy, as he may be late--as I would only be content with
his seeing the Editor in person--and as editors, I understand, come
down late to their work--suppose you mix yourself a whisky-and-soda:
for here is Furnilove with the glasses. . . . Furnilove! keep the
latch up for an hour or so, and the door on the chain. Mr. Farrell
may be calling late with a particular message. Do not admit him
beyond the hall, but come and report to me here. Sir Roderick will
receive him in the hall and take the message."

"Yes, miss," said the obedient Furnilove.

"That is all." Constantia pondered.--"Except that you may tell the
housemaid not to worry about the room for Sir Roderick. He will not
sleep here, after all. And you may send Henriette up with word to
Mamma that all is right and Sir Roderick stays only to receive Mr.
Farrell's message. He will probably be going at once on receipt of
it, and then you can lock up. The others can go to bed when they
choose."

"Very good, miss," said Furnilove, and withdrew.

"And now," said Constantia, "since he is late, keep me amused.
Tell me all about the island."

So I told her this and that of my voyaging; and the time drew on
until the clock on the mantelpiece chimed a half-hour. It was
one-thirty.

"The dickens!" said I, pulling out my own watch and consulting it.
"Farrell is a long time at Printing House Square. In my belief, Con,
he won't be returning."

Just at that moment the front door bell pealed loudly.

We stood up together. We heard Furnilove padding towards the door,
and we both moved out into the passage as he slid up the latch and
unhooked the chain. Constantia, in her eagerness, had pressed a
little ahead of me.

A man rushed in, disregarding Furnilove, shouldering him aside--a
man in a furred overcoat. Expecting Farrell, for the moment I
mistook him for Farrell. Even when above the fur collar I caught the
sight of common khaki, for another moment I took him for Farrell.
But he ran for Constantia, stretching out his arms as if to embrace
her; and as he stretched them, under the hall light, I saw that one
of his hands was bleeding.

I had enough presence of mind to spring in front of her and ward