Here _she_ is now, at all events, at half-past twelve at night!

"Wasn't it fortunate I found you?" says she. She is laughing a
little, and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heart
to contradict her--though where the fortune comes in----

"I'm starving," says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soon
boil?" The professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving her
some tea. "I haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you know
she dines at an ungodly hour. Two o'clock! I didn't know I wanted
anything to eat until I escaped from her, but now that I have got
_you,"_ triumphantly, "I feel as hungry as ever I can be."

"There is nothing," says the professor, blankly. His heart seems to
stop beating. The most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terrible
to him to have to say this. Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt,
is still in the hall waiting for an explanation, could give him
something. But Mrs. Mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this is
safe to be a "time." Yet without her assistance he can think of no
means by which this pretty, slender, troublesome little ward of his
can be fed.

"Nothing!" repeats she faintly. "Oh, but surely in that cupboard
over there, where you put the glass, there is something; even bread
and butter I should like."

She gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so
brushes against a small ricketty table, that totters feebly for an
instant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a whole
heap of gruesome dry bones at her very feet.