in dusk.

"Oh, Peter, dear, I'm so glad you've come! The most awful thing has
happened."

That was Mrs. Temple who, wrapped in something fleecy in texture and
pink in hue, was crouched on the lowest step, looking more than ever
like a tea-cozy dropped by accident.

"What's the matter?" Davenant asked, too deeply astonished even to take
off his hat. "Is it burglars? Where's the professor?"

"He's gone to bed. It isn't burglars. I wish it was. It's something far,
far worse. Collins told Drusilla. Oh, I know it's true--though Rodney
wouldn't say so. I simply ... _know_ ... it's ... _true_."

"Oh, it's true," Drusilla corroborated. "I knew that the minute Collins
began to speak. It explains everything--all the little queernesses I've
noticed ever since I came home--and everything."

"What is it?" Peter asked again. "Who's Collins? And what has he said?"

"It isn't a he; it's a she," Drusilla explained. "She's my maid. I knew
the minute I came into the room that she'd got something on her mind--I
knew it by the way she took my wrapper from the wardrobe and laid it on
the bed. It was too awful!"

"What was too awful? The way she laid your wrapper on the bed?"

"No; what she told me. And I _know_ it's true."