This time Lionel had himself well in hand: he was ready for anything. It was no occasion for tenderness or chivalry: brusk silent action was the cue. Seizing the stricken Mizzi by the arm with one hand, he clapped the other over her mouth to prevent a scream. Then half-pushing, half-dragging, he forced her along the few remaining yards that separated them from his bedroom. She struggled at first, but soon realized her helplessness and allowed him to have his way. When he had her safely inside, Lionel locked the door quietly and sat down in high feather on the bed. He felt he was beginning to earn his salary at last.

"Do sit down," he suggested politely. "We must have quite a long conversation before we part. I can recommend the armchair."

Mizzi shrugged her shoulders philosophically and obeyed. She was breathing a little quickly from the capture; but Lionel noticed that she was as charming as ever, and his heart harbored a rebellious thought. "Hard luck that I seem to be always trying to snare a pretty girl!" he mused. "Well, it must be no nonsense now, my friend. Saint Anthony, forward!" He studied Mizzi's face attentively for a minute, and then asked bluntly, "Now, will you kindly tell me what you have done with those papers?"

"What papers?" she asked with surpassing innocence. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Oh, don't be silly!" he said impatiently. "Why need we beat about the bush? You know well enough. Explain."

"I know this," she said viciously, "that you find me coming from my room, fall upon me like an Apache, drag me here at this unseemly hour and lock me in! And you ask me to explain! The explanation is due from you. Have you never heard of les convenances—what you English call Mrs. Grundy?"

"She's snoring now," he smiled. "I shan't wake her."

Mizzi rose with dignity and marched to the door, nose in the air. "If you are a gentleman," she said scornfully, "you will release me at once."

"Afterward," he replied without moving. He sensed his triumph already.

"After what?"

"Your explanation."

She sat down again and looked keenly at him, as if trying to divine the strength of his determination. "I have nothing to explain," she said presently. "If I had, you could not compel me. If you attempt it I shall scream."

"Quite worth trying," he said urbanely. "Start now. I haven't the least objection."

Mizzi remained silent for several minutes, debating the point. Then she laughed frankly, as if admiring his coolness. "Ah! that's better!" he approved. "Now, perhaps, we shall get on."

"But no!" she said quickly, "I shall not scream, because I am quite capable of taking care of myself. But I will tell you nothing. What next, monsieur?"

Lionel got off the bed and began to fill a pipe in leisurely fashion. "You don't mind me smoking?" he asked formally. "It always helps me." He struck a match and lighted the tobacco, apparently preoccupied. "What next? you ask. This. Have you ever seen that Pinero play, The Gay Lord Quex?"

She shook her head, puzzled.

"Ah! that's a pity, for I am going to borrow a hint if you are difficile. If you refuse to confess I mean to keep you locked up here till the morning."

"And then?"

"Then I shall ring for my shaving-water. And where's your character?"

She bit her lips. "I mistook you for a gentleman."

"Ah! that was the fault of the top hat. I'm really a detective and can't afford the luxury of sentiment."

Mizzi nibbled a finger-nail, and watched him with sparkling eyes. It was clear that she was not at ease, that she had not expected to find him so ready with a plan, so determined in dishonor. Being a woman, it is probable that she did not altogether blame him. Lionel smiled, reading her, as he thought, like a book.

"Well, what is it to be?"

She made a disconsolate gesture.

"You are too strong," she said, and smiled in pitiful appeal. "Ah, monsieur! once you would not have——"

"That line is useless," said Lionel brutally. He was playing for high stakes and could not afford to waste a trick. "Once I flirted and had the pleasure of a kiss. Never again, my pretty schemer! So don't try it on!"

She looked bewildered.

"You misunderstand me cruelly. But as I am to be beaten, let us get to business. What do you wish to know?"

"Where are the papers?"

She did not attempt to parry now. "They are not in this house."

"That is a lie."

She shrugged again.

"Monsieur is not discriminating. I tell you the truth. I took the papers and have hidden them. They are not here. If you like, here are my keys"—she held them out—"you may search my boxes."

He looked steadily at her. There was no wavering in her tone, no weakness in the eyes or mouth. Belief was imperative.

"Very well," he said. "Where have you hidden them?"

"I will not tell you that."

"You know the penalty?"

"Yes, and I do not care. I tell you so much, but not that."

Her voice was so inflexible, so cold and so indifferent that he felt defeat at hand.

"Leave it for the present, then. Have you sold them?"

"No. They would not pay the price."

"And you are waiting till they increase their offer?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps!" he echoed. "But you mean to sell them?"

She smiled faintly.

"Perhaps. I may have stolen them for other motives than money. Enough that I stole them and will not tell you where they are."

He changed his line of attack.

"To-morrow I will have you arrested for theft."

"No," she demurred. "You have no proof—no witness. The papers will never be found unless I choose. Besides, you dare not have me arrested: you know this is not a police matter."

"True," he admitted, for her knowledge made it useless to bluff. He paused and thought, Mizzi smiling maliciously from the armchair. The pendulum of victory was swinging to her and she could afford to smile. "Look here!" said Lionel, remembering another weapon. "Will you sell me them? I'll give you your price."

"I will never sell them to you," she said, still with inflexible determination. "Do not suggest it again, please. It would be a waste of time."

Lionel was baffled, beaten at every point in the game, and he knew it. "Confound it!" he thought savagely, "I fancied I held the key of the situation in my hands, and I am no further on. I am deeper, in fact, for I know that Mizzi is here and I do not know why.... Ah!" he cried suddenly, determined to have one thing decided for good and all. "You have won to-night, I allow—I have no hold on you to make you confess—but there is one thing that you have done for me—one suspicion that your presence here has made almost a certainty—one resolution of a doubt that I can thank you for, however painfully—"

"And that is?" she asked with polite interest.

"This. I have come to the conclusion that the whole business is a game. I don't understand it in the least, but it's a game none the less, and I have been a dupe. I am sure now that Miss Blair and Miss Arkwright are the same person. What do you say to that?"

Mizzi did not so much as flicker an eyelash. She looked at him with a lazy amusement.

"Herr Gott!" she said with a scorn that seared his unbelief forever. "If you think that you will think anything. Miss Arkwright and Miss Blair the same!" and she went off into an uncontrollable peal.

Lionel would have dearly liked to shake her, but in the midst of his defeat he realized with a glow that she had won a Pyrrhic victory. "She won't tell me what I ask her," he thought deliriously, "but she has convinced me of Beatrice's innocence. That is something at all events!" and he, too, began to laugh so infectiously that Mizzi stared in amazement. They laughed like two good friends, and it was in an excellent humor that Lionel at last got up.

"Congratulations!" he said courteously. "You have beaten me, I confess. I can not give you in charge, unfortunately, and I do not see that any good purpose would be served by keeping you here all night. If I did, I would do so without hesitation. But I warn you that I shall ask Miss Arkwright to-morrow for an explanation of your presence."

"I hope she will give you one," said Mizzi, rising with twinkling eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Mortimer. I hardly expected you to be generous, but I felt sure you would be sensible."

He laughed good-humoredly and walked over to the door, she following with a demure air that was something of a trial to Saint Anthony. He fitted the key, turned it, and opened the door with a little bow. The bow was never perfectly finished, for framed in the doorway he beheld the figures of his hostess and Mrs. Wetherby. They had evidently been on the point of knocking, for Miss Arkwright's right hand was raised in the air: the projected knock had assumed the similitude of a blessing—or a curse.

Mizzi fell back in unaffected horror. Lionel, the sport of fortune, was past surprise. He only stood and waited.

"Mizzi!" said Miss Arkwright—one can not think of her as Winifred in such a deplorable situation: she radiated outraged respectability. "Mizzi!"

The unhappy innocent was almost incapable of speech. Before Miss Arkwright's cutting dissyllables and Miss Wetherby's damnatory mien she was crushed. Lionel felt really sorry for her. "It is not my fault, madame," she mumbled. "Believe me, it is not my fault! This gentleman trepanned me. I am innocent. Is it not so, Mr. Mortimer?"

"She speaks the truth," said Lionel calmly. "I kidnaped her and locked her in. I suppose that sounds unlikely, but it is a fact: I alone am to blame. Does one apologize for this sort of thing? If so, I am very sorry, but——"

Miss Arkwright silenced him with a gesture. Her looks were serpents, her attitude was a virgin horror of man. She pointed imperiously to the corridor. "Go!" she hissed (yes—yes: "hissed" is melodrama, but she did hiss), and Mizzi scuttled whimpering into the darkness. For a moment there was silence, but when the luckless girl had disappeared she turned again to Lionel. "Now, sir, be good enough to give me your key."

"My key!" he repeated in amazement. "Why?"

"Because I mean to lock you in for the night," she said sternly. "Without that degrading precaution we can not feel safe."

Mrs. Wetherby said nothing, but nodded a grim approval.

"I recognize your claims as hostess," replied Lionel amicably, "but, really, this is carrying the thing too far. I am not the vulgar intriguer you suppose—I merely kidnaped that charming——"

"If you refuse," interrupted Winifred with basilisk eyes, "I shall ring for Forbes and have you turned out of the house at once. Do you understand?"

Lionel sighed.

"I ought to have known," he said, "that a woman judges by emotion, not reason. In the morning perhaps I shall be able to convince you of my innocence." He gave her the key, which she snatched with unnecessary vehemence. "Good night. Thank you for an uneventful evening."

She ignored the insolence, which he justified to himself by her unreasonable suspicions. Leaving him in a nonchalant attitude, she swept out like an offended princess, her satellite following in an eloquent silence. Lionel heard the key turn dismally in the lock, and then the sound of footsteps retreating down the passage. He laughed gently to himself.

"Good lord, what a muddle!" he said, "and what an evening! First, the face at the window (what a title for a melodrama!—Dash it! I've seen it already on the posters!); second, the appearance of Mizzi; third, discovered by Winifred. Climax after climax, and I was beginning to think myself bored. Bored ... ye gods!... all I need at the present moment is bed: I've done enough thinking to scour my brain-pan for a year."

He undressed rapidly and got into bed. As he pulled the clothes about him he chuckled, remembering Winifred's face. Then he grew grave. "Sacked to-morrow, old boy!" he muttered. "Marching orders at breakfast and no mistake! But before I go I'll ask her straight out what little Mizzi is doing here." And then he turned over and was soon asleep.

But the horn of plenty still had some gifts to shower upon him: the god of mischances had not yet exhausted his store of thrills. About five minutes, as it seemed, after his retiring—it was really an hour and a half—Lionel was roused from a deep slumber by a knock. He sat up in bed, blinking heavily, wondering if his senses had deceived him, whether he was dreaming or awake. For a moment he sat listening, and then the knock was repeated, distinct beyond the possibility of mistake. "Confound it!" he muttered in an ill temper; "they might give me a night off now.... To-morrow I'll hang a placard on my door—'Conspiracies attended to from nine A. M. to eleven P. M. Kindly note hours of consultation.'—Hello!" he said aloud; "is anybody there?"

The door opened a few inches, but no one entered. Lionel was too bored to speculate whether it might be Mizzi, Winifred or some unknown Oriental with turban and simitar. He was prepared to accept anything, if only he might be allowed to go to sleep. "Hello!" he repeated; "who is that?"

"Me," said the voice of Miss Arkwright. "Are you asleep, Mr. Mortimer?"

"Yes," said Lionel, grinning in the darkness—"sound asleep."

A species of cluck was heard from outside the door, but whether the strange sound indicated amusement or wrath he could not determine. He was wide awake now, determined to exact vengeance for his cavalier treatment.

"Some one," continued the voice, "is prowling round the house. A thief, I suppose. He seems to have a ladder."

"Oh!" said Lionel, in the dispassionate tone of the village idiot. "Oh!"

Again there was silence, save for a repetition of the curious cluck. Presently Winifred said in a voice that trembled with indignation, "Is that all you have to say?"

"You might give him my kind regards, and ask him to leave this room untouched," said Lionel, beginning to enjoy himself. He could picture Winifred biting her lip. "Good night, and pleasant dreams."

"You are a man, and my guest," said the voice bitterly, "and you leave us at the mercy of a possible murderer——"

"Not a guest," he corrected, "but a prisoner. If you require a man, why not ask Forbes? You were ready enough to use him just now."

Again there was silence. When she spoke again it was in the meekest of tones—so meek, indeed, that he scarcely recognized it as Winifred's.

"Mr. Mortimer, I am very sorry. Please be generous. I threatened you with a weapon I did not possess. Forbes sleeps in the village."

Lionel could not repress a laugh. He had been bluffed, but bore no malice. Enough of vengeance had been exacted. He could accept the capitulation without loss of dignity, for Miss Arkwright—most properly—had been obliged to ask his help.

"A moment," he said, "and I shall be with you."

Jumping out of bed, he hastily put on his dressing-gown in the dark. Then he opened the door and joined Winifred in the corridor. She was in a dressing-gown, too, and looked charming en dÉshabille, her glorious hair unbound. But no time was allowed for more than a glance of admiration. Taking him by the arm, she hurried him along, explaining how she had not gone to sleep, but had lain thinking. "My light was out, of course," she said; "and this marauder, whoever he is, must have thought all the household asleep. I watched him cross the lawn and presently bring back a ladder from the potting-shed. He reared it against the window of an empty room. I at once came to you. As soon as he has discovered his mistake he will probably try another."

"Then shall I go down-stairs and capture him as he descends?" suggested Lionel.

"Let us see first from the window," she said. "We must make sure."

They entered her bedroom together and walked softly toward the window. The blind was up.

There was no moon, but the faint promise of the dawn lent a dim light, by which objects, grotesquely shadowed, could be distinguished. When they reached the window Lionel saw the top of a ladder resting against the sill.

"You're right!" he whispered. "Now, I'm off outside!" He turned to go, but was detained by a pressure on his arm.

"No, no!" whispered Winifred. "I can not let you—there may be a gang—you might get hurt——"

"Nonsense!"

"I insist!"

"Then why——"

"You must not go! Throw something instead——"

"Absurd! I——"

"I beg you!" she entreated, and her voice was so timid that once again Lionel's heart failed. "All right!" he said. "Give me something heavy. I'll fling up the window suddenly and surprise him!"

She pressed his arm gratefully and glided across the room. The next moment she was at his side, offering the water-jug.

"Capital!" whispered Lionel. "Drench him first, then stun him with the jug. Any other trifles to bestow? Soap—hair-brushes—a boot or two? Any little knickknacks——"

"The ladder is moving!"

It was being shifted a few inches, apparently to a better foothold. Lionel seized the jug and made ready for action.

"Cigar or cocoa-nut, lidy?" he whispered joyously as he threw up the sash.