haunted eyes peered round the room. They satisfied themselves that no
one was about and a tiny hand clutching a cracked jug was thrust swiftly
in and dipped into the pan; and the window softly closed.

He knew the thief, the grandchild of an old bedridden dame who lived some
miles away on the edge of the moor. The old man stood long, watching the
small cloaked figure till it was lost in the darkness. It was not till
he lay upon his dying bed that he confessed it. But each evening, from
that day, he would steal into the room and see to it himself that the
window was left ajar.

After the coffee, Mrs. Phillips proposed their adjourning to the "drawing-
room" the other side of the folding doors, which had been left open.
Phillips asked her to leave Joan and himself where they were. He wanted
to talk to her. He promised not to bore her for more than ten minutes.

The others rose and moved away. Hilda came and stood before Joan with
her hands behind her.

"I am going to bed now," she said. "I wanted to see you from what Papa
told me. May I kiss you?"

It was spoken so gravely that Joan did not ask her, as in lighter mood
she might have done, what it was that Phillips had said. She raised her
face quietly, and the child bent forward and kissed her, and went out
without looking back at either of them, leaving Joan more serious than
there seemed any reason for. Phillips filled his pipe and lighted it.

"I wish I had your pen," he said, suddenly breaking the silence. "I'm
all right at talking; but I want to get at the others: the men and women