you'd tell my father on me."

She rose, still smiling, and he followed her into the library.

"Are all the studios in your building occupied?" he asked.

"They are," said Barbara, "and they aren't. Kelting, who has the ground
floor, has gone abroad. And Updyke, who has the third floor, has been in
Bermuda all winter." She sank into a deep leather chair that half
swallowed her.

"There's a janitor?"

"No. There's a janitress, a friendly old lady, quite deaf. She has seen
infinitely better days."

"To all intents and purposes, then," said Wilmot, and the trouble that
he felt showed in his face, "it's an empty house, and you shut yourself
up in it with some model or other that you happen to pick up in the
streets, and you don't know enough to be afraid. You'll get yourself
murdered one of these bright mornings."

"Oh, I think not!" said Barbara. "There's Bubbles, you know."

"Oh, Bubbles!" exclaimed Wilmot. "He doesn't weigh eighty pounds. This
Blizzard--look here, get rid of him. I can't tell you what the man is."
He laughed. "I don't know you well enough. But take my word for it, if a
crime appeals to him, he commits it. And the police can't touch
him, Barbs."