It had been thus ever since his talk with Mother and Father.

And so he came to make a second discovery: His parents did not really

believe in his Figure. She kept away on that account. They doubted

her; she hid. Here was still another incentive to go and find her

out. He ached for her, she was so kind, she gave herself so much

trouble—just for his little self in the big and lonely bedroom. Yet

his parents spoke of her as though she were of no account. He longed

to see her, face to face, and tell her that he believed in her and

loved her. For he was positive she would like to hear it. She cared.

Though he had fallen asleep of late too quickly for him to see her

flash in at the door, he had known nicer dreams than ever in his life

before-travelling dreams. And it was she who sent them. More—he was

sure she took him out with her.

One evening, in the dusk of a March day, his opportunity came; and

only just in time, for his brother Jack was expected home from school

on the morrow, and with Jack in the other bed, no Figure would ever

care to show itself. Also it was Easter, and after Easter, though Tim

was not aware of it at the time, he was to say good-bye finally to

governesses and become a day-boarder at a preparatory school for

Wellington. The opportunity offered itself so naturally, moreover, that

Tim took it without hesitation. It never occurred to him to question,

much less to refuse it. The thing was obviously meant to be. For he

found himself unexpectedly in front of a green baize door; and the

green baize door was—-swinging! Somebody, therefore, had just passed

through it.

It had come about in this wise. Father, away in Scotland, at

Inglemuir, the shooting place, was expected back next morning; Mother

had driven over to the church upon some Easter business or other; and

the governess had been allowed her holiday at home in France. Tim,

therefore, had the run of the house, and in the hour between tea and

bed-time he made good use of it. Fully able to defy such second-rate

obstacles as nurses and butlers, he explored all manner of forbidden

places with ardent thoroughness, arriving finally in the sacred

precincts of his father’s study. This wonderful room was the very

heart and centre of the whole big house; he had been birched here long

ago; here, too, his father had told him with a grave yet smiling face:

“You’ve got a new companion, Tim, a little sister; you must be very

kind to her.” Also, it was the place where all the money was kept.

What he called “father’s jolly smell” was strong in it—-papers,

tobacco, books, flavoured by hunting crops and gunpowder.

At first he felt awed, standing motionless just inside the door;

but presently, recovering equilibrium, he moved cautiously on tiptoe

towards the gigantic desk where important papers were piled in untidy

patches. These he did not touch; but beside them his quick eye noted

the jagged piece of iron shell his father brought home from his

Crimean campaign and now used as a letter-weight. It was difficult to

lift, however. He climbed into the comfortable chair and swung.round

and round. It was a swivel-chair, and he sank down among the cushions

in it, staring at the strange things on the great desk before him, as

if fascinated.