No on can get in.”

But, as the wind rose, the monotonous rattle and beat continued, at irregular intervals. It got on Helen’s nerves, so that she could not settle down to her tea.

“It’s a miserable night,” she said.’ “If that tree was waiting for Cerwiden, I don’t envy her.”

“He’s caught her by now,” chuckled Mrs. Oates. “She won’t be noticing weather no more.”.

“There it goes a again… . Have you a screwdriver?”

Helen’s eyes lit up as she spoke, for she had a mania for small mechanical jobs.

“You see, Mrs. Oates, this sound will irritate you,” she explained. “And then you’ll spoil the dinner. And then we shall have indigestion. I’ll see if I can’t put it right.”

“What a one you are to look for work,” grumbled Mrs. Oates, as she followed Helen through the scullery.

The smallish window was at the end of the passage, close to the scullery door. As Helen unbarred the shutter, a gust of wind struck it, like a blow, and dashed drops of rain against the streaming glass..

Together, the big woman and the small girl, stood, peering out into the garden. They could see only a black huddle of shrubs and a gleam of thrashing boughs.

“Doesn’t it look creepy?” said Helen. “I wonder if I can fix this catch. Have you any small nails?”

“I’ll see if I can find some. Oates is a terror for nails.”

Mrs. Oates lumbered through the scullery, leaving Helen alone staring out into the wet garden. There were no bushes, on this side, to give the impression of a crawling greyness creeping towards the house; the night seemed to have become solid and definite—clear-cut chunks of threatening blackness.

It inspired a spirit of defiance in Helen.

“Come on—if you dare,” she cried aloud.

The answer to her challenge was immediate-a piercing scream from the kitchen.

Helen’s heart leaped at the thin terror-stricken wail. There was only room for one thought in her mind. The maniac was lurking in hiding, and she had sent the poor unsuspecting Mrs. Oates into his trap.

“He’s got her,” she thought, as she caught up the bar and dashed into the kitchen.

Mrs. Oates greeted her with another scream, but there was no sign of the source of her terror, although she was on the verge of hysteria.

“A mouse,” she yelled. “It went over there.”

Helen stared at her in blank incredulity.

“You can’t be frightened of a little mouse. It isn’t done. Old stuff, you know.” “But they make me crawl all over,” whimpered Mrs. Oates.

“In that case, I suppose murder will have to be com mitted. A pity. Here, Ginger, Ginger.”.

Helen called, in vain, to the cat, who continued to wash with an affectation of complete detachment. Mrs. Oates apologized for him. “He’s a civil cat, but he can’t abide mice.