shakes of a lamb's--" The remainder of his promise was lost in the
rush of exit.

Barnes surveyed the little bed-chamber. It was just what he had
expected it would be. The walls were covered with a garish paper
selected by one who had an eye but not a taste for colour: bright pink
flowers that looked more or less like chunks of a shattered water
melon spilt promiscuously over a background of pearl grey. There was
every indication that it had been hung recently. Indeed there was a
distinct aroma of fresh flour paste. The bedstead, bureau and
washstand were likewise offensively modern. Everything was as clean as
a pin, however, and the bed looked comfortable. He stepped to the
small, many-paned window and looked out into the night. The storm was
at its height. In all his life he never had heard such a clatter of
rain, nor a wind that shrieked so appallingly.

His thoughts went quite naturally to the woman who was out there in
the thick of it. He wondered how she was faring, and lamented that she
was not in his place now and he in hers. A smile lighted his eyes. She
had such a nice voice and such a quaint way of putting things into
words. What was she doing up in this God-forsaken country? And how
could she be so certain of that grumpy old man whom she had never laid
eyes on before? What was the name of the place she was bound for?
Green Fancy! What an odd name for a house! And what sort of house--

His reflections were interrupted by the return of Mr. Dillingford, who
carried a huge pewter pitcher from which steam arose in volume. At his
heels strode a tall, cadaverous person in a checked suit.

Never had Barnes seen anything quite so overpowering in the way of a