fixed."

"Oh, Joe--listen! Do you think you can get a ladder out from under the
verandah? The painters left them there this morning. Look out for
paint, dear. Don't make a noise--not a sound. Mr. Windomshire's room
is just over the porte cochere. For Heaven's sake, don't arouse him."

"Drop your bag down first, dear,--here! I'll catch it."

"I've got to put some things in it first. It isn't quite ready," she
gasped, darting away from the window.

"'T was ever thus," he muttered in despair. Cautiously he made his way
to the end of the verandah. A close listener might have heard him
snarl "damn" more than once as he tugged away at the painters'
ladders, which had been left there when the rain began. He was a good-
natured chap, but barking his knuckles, bumping his head, and banging
his shins, added to the misfortunes that had gone before, were enough
to demoralise a saint.

He imagined that he was making enough noise to rouse the neighbours
for blocks around. No time was to be lost in self-commiseration,
however. He hurriedly dragged out a ladder, which he managed to place
against the window-sill without accident.

"Here it is," she whispered excitedly. The next instant a heavy object
dropped at his feet with a crash. "Oh!" she exclaimed with horror, "my
perfume bottles!"

"Good Lord!" he gasped.