"What's the matter?"

"Hush, there are men in the house."

"If they're burglars tell 'em the silver's in the sideboard."

"It's the police."

I sat up in bed. "The police!--why?--what?"

"Shissh! come quickly and don't make a noise," breathed Miss Brown.

I hurried into a shooting-jacket and slippers and joined the lady on the
landing. She carried a candle and was adequately if somewhat grotesquely
clad in a dressing-gown and an eider-down quilt secured about her waist by
a knotted bath-towel. On her head she wore a large black hat. She put her
finger to her lips and led the way downstairs. The hall was empty.

"That's curious," said Miss Brown. "There were eighteen mounted policemen
in here just now. I was talking to the Inspector--such a nice young man, an
intimate friend of the late Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN, who, he informs me
privately, did _not_ kill Cock Robin."

She paused, winked and then suddenly dealt me three hearty smacks--one on
the shoulder, one on the arm and one in the small of the back. I removed
myself hastily out of range.

"Tarantulas, or Peruvian ant-bears, crawling all over you," Miss Brown
explained. "Fortunate I saw them in time, as their suck is fatal in