Within the bungalow of the Ilams there remained only two persons who were legally entitled to be there, and those persons were Mrs. Ilam, motionless for ever, but with her bright, tragic eyes staring continually at the same point in the ceiling, and Rosie Dartmouth. These two women, however, were decidedly not alone in the house. It was a large house, a bungalow more by the character of its architecture and its many balconies, than by its size and shape. Most bungalows are long and low; this one was long without being low. On the ground floor were the reception rooms and kitchen offices; on the first floor were the principal bedrooms; and above these was a low-ceiled floor of servants’ bedrooms. Nor was that all; for the steeply-sloping roof had been utilized by an architect who hated to waste space as a miser hates to waste money, and hence, above even the servants’ floor was a vast attic, serviceable for storage. The attic was reached by a little flight of stairs of its own, and it was lighted by two panes of glass let into the roof, one on either side.

The ground-floor and the servants’ floor were now dark and uninhabited. On the first floor the only occupied room was the bedchamber of Mrs. Ilam, where Rosie stood nervously by the mantelpiece in an attitude of uneasy expectation. The sole illumination was given by the small rose-shaded lamp, which threw a circle of light on the white cloth of the invalid’s night-table; all else, including Rosie, was in gloom.

Rosie was evidently listening—the door was ajar—and after a few moments she stepped hastily outside on to the landing, and glanced up the well of the staircase. At the summit of the staircase she saw the door of the great attic open, and a figure emerge; the figure, which was carrying a small electric lantern, carefully locked the door of the attic behind it, and then, with some deliberation, descended the narrow attic stairs, and, more quietly, the stairs from the servants’ floor to the first floor.

The figure was that of Mr. Jetsam, clothed in his eternal suit of blue serge.

The stairs and landing were quite dark, save for his lantern and the faint glimmer that came from Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom. Mr. Jetsam had moved without a sound, for he was wearing thick felt slippers. He did not immediately notice Rosie on the landing, and when the light of his lantern caught and showed her dress, he started back slightly. Rosie made no move.

“I did not expect you to be there,” he whispered.

She regarded him with steady eyes, and then, without a word, motioned him to proceed further downstairs to the ground-floor.

“You want to talk to me?” he whispered again.

He had a voice which was curiously capable of being almost inaudible, and yet at the same time distinct.

She nodded.

He pointed to the open door of Mrs. Ilam’s room, but Rosie shook her head.

“Why not?” he demanded.

She shook her head once more, and they went downstairs to the dining-room, both silently creeping. With infinite precautions he opened the dining-room door, and shut it when they had entered.

“It would have been better to remain upstairs,” he said mildly. “The least possible movement is dangerous enough. At this stage a creaking stair might spoil the whole business.”

“I cannot talk there,” she said.

“But, since Mrs. Ilam is utterly helpless,” he protested, “what can it matter what she hears? She cannot talk.”

“The fact that she hears is more than enough to upset me,” said Rosie. “I am like that, you see. I know it is silly, but I can’t help it. I wanted to tell you that I have just had a dreadful scene with Pauline.”

“A dreadful scene! You’ve not quarrelled?” he demanded anxiously.

“Oh, no! But I’ve lied to her—I’ve lied to her in the most shocking way, and, what is worse, I fancy she didn’t quite believe me.”

“She suspects something?”

His tone sounded apprehensive in the gloom.

“I don’t know; I hope not. In any case, what can she suspect? She’s been in bed all the time.”

“True,” said Mr. Jetsam reflectively. “True! You have behaved magnificently, Miss Rosie. Never, never, in this world, shall I be able to thank you. I had not thought that such a woman as you existed. You have given me the first sympathy I have ever had. Yes, the first!—without you I could never have succeeded. I could scarcely have begun. And now I shall succeed. Listen to me—I shall succeed! A wrong will be righted. Justice will be done. If it isn’t, I shall kill myself.”

He finished grimly, as it were, ferociously.

“Don’t say that,” pleaded Rosie.

He laughed. Then he lifted the little lantern and threw its ray on her face. She did not flinch. “You are very pale,” he remarked softly.

“What do you expect?” she answered. “You have gone much further—very much further than I ever dreamt of. You have led me on.”

“No,” he said, “it is your own kindness of heart, your sympathy with the unfortunate that has led you on. I assure you I was never so bold before I met you, before I appealed to you that night when you stood on your balcony. Do you regret? If you tell me to stop, to abandon my plans and depart—well, I will depart.”

She smiled sadly.

“I do not want you to do that,” she said. “Nevertheless, I tremble for what you have done.”

“Do not tremble,” he said coaxingly. “If I am not safe here, where am I safe? Is not this the very last place where anyone would expect to find me and my—my booty?”

“But, then, sending the servants away,” she exclaimed.

“Nothing simpler,” he commented.

“I don’t know how I did it,” she mused, as if aghast at the memory of what she had achieved; “and as for to-morrow, how I shall explain it to Pauline I really can’t imagine!”

“To-morrow,” he said, “everything will be over one way or the other; you will be able to resume your habit of speaking the truth. By the way,” he went on, in a tone carefully careless, “you managed to do what I asked you with the boat?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Did you meet anyone?”

“Not a soul.”

“And you pulled the plug out and cut the boat: adrift?”

“Pulled the plug out and cut the boat adrift!” she repeated after him, amazed. “No; you never told me to do that!”

“Pardon me,” he said, “that was the most important thing of all. It is essential that there should be no trace of the boat.”

“I didn’t understand,” she faltered. “I’m so sorry. I never heard——”

“I regret I didn’t make myself more clear,” he remarked. “You see, at intervals during the night the watchmen do their patrols, and I know there is a regular inspection of the terrace. Supposing the boat is seen?”

“I really don’t remember, that you asked me to do that,” she persisted.

“Anyhow,” he said politely, “what you have done deserves all my praise and gratitude. But——”

“You would like me to go and sink the boat, wouldn’t you?”

“I hesitate to ask you. It is really too much——”

“Yes, yes,” she said passionately. “I will go and do it—alone.” Then she paused. “But suppose I meet the patrol?”

“You are you,” was Jetsam’s response. “You are the President’s cousin. You have the right to amuse yourself with a boat, at no matter what hour of the day or night.”

“Just so,” she admitted. “I will go now. I shall be back quite soon. Shall you be ready by the time I return?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Everything is all right?” She seemed to question him anxiously.

“Quite all right,” he said; “Let me thank you again.”

With an impulsive movement he took her hand and kissed it. She blushed and trembled. Then he opened the door and they passed out into the hall.

“I will unfasten the front-door for you,” he whispered. “I think I can do it more quietly than you. It may be left on the latch till you come back;” and he unfastened the front-door. Through its panes a faint light entered the hall.

“I must get my hat,” she said.

They went upstairs.

“I’ll leave you,” he whispered. “You can manage?”

She nodded. He put the light on a bracket on the landing and ascended to the upper parts of the house. Rosie went into her bedroom. When she came out, wearing a hat, she noticed for the first time that the door of Pauline’s bedroom was not shut. She pushed it open very carefully, and peered in. A feeble reflection of the moonlight redeemed it from absolute obscurity, and Rosie perceived that the bed was unoccupied, that it had not even been slept in. Instantly her mind became full of suspicions. Had Pauline lied to her as she had lied to Pauline? Was her part in the plot of Mr. Jetsam discovered? No, impossible! And yet—Then she recollected having heard, or having thought that she had heard, the distant ringing of one of the service-bells in the house some time before Mr. Jetsam came downstairs. She had forgotten to mention this disturbing fact to Mr. Jetsam. Evidently he had not heard the ringing, or he would have questioned her about it. Supposing they were being watched, after all? And in any case where was Pauline? Pauline had given her to understand that she had retired to rest, and lo! the bed had not been touched! Full of tremors, she silently shut the door on the empty room.

She remembered Jetsam’s threat of what he should do if his plans failed, and she hesitated.