"Small study and the window open, miss," he whispered. "There's some game
on--oh, yes, there is some blessed game on again to-night. And him so
anxious to know how Miss Christiana is. Says she ought to call him in
professionally. Personally I'd rather call in an undertaker who was
desperately hard up for a job."

"All right, Williams," Enid replied. "My sister is worse to-night. And
unless she gets better I shall insist upon her seeing a doctor. And I am
obliged for the hint about Mr. Henson. The little study commands the
staircase leading to my sister's bedroom."

"And the open window commands the garden," Williams said, drily.

"Yes, yes. Now go. You are a real friend, Williams, and I will never
forget your goodness. Run along--I can actually _feel_ that man coming."

As a matter of fact, Henson was approaching noiselessly. Despite his
great bulk he had the clean, dainty step of a cat; his big, rolling ears
were those of a hare. Henson was always listening. He would have listened
behind a kitchen door to a pair of chattering scullery-maids. He liked to
find other people out, though as yet he had not been found out himself.
He stood before the world as a social missioner; he made speeches at
religious gatherings and affected the women to tears. He was known to
devote a considerable fortune to doing good; he had been asked to stand
for Parliament, where his real ambition lay. Gilead Gates had alluded to
Reginald Henson as his right-hand man.

He crept along to the study, where the lamps were lighted and the silver
claret-jug set out. He carefully dusted a big arm-chair and began to
smoke, having first carefully extinguished the lamps and seen that the