Oates would swat it.”

“If that’s a hint, I’m not going to swat it. But I’ll frighten it away.”

With her sensitized reaction to any situation, she was conscious of anti-climax, when she went down on her knees and began to beat the floor with her bar. Just whenever the drama seemed to be working up to a moment of tension, the crisis always eluded her and degenerated into farce.

Not until the night was over could she trace the repercussions of each trivial incident and realize that the wave of fear which flooded the house, washed back to an insignificant source.

She could see her quarry-a small and rather attractive rodent-frisking in the distance, with the assurance of an old resident..

“Where’s its hole?” she whispered.

“In that corner,” panted Mrs. Oates. “Oates did say as how he’d stop it up.”

Helen was driving the mouse homewards when she started at’ the sound of footsteps on the back-stairs.

“Who’s that?” she cried.

“Not him,” laughed Mrs. Oates. “When he comes you’ll not hear him on the way. He’ll creep. That sounds like Mr. Rice.”

As she spoke the door was pushed open, and Stephen Rice carrying a suitcase-entered the kitchen. He stared at the sight of the demure Miss Capel on her knees, with her hair falling in a mane across her eyes.

“What’s this?” he asked. “Red Indians, or a crawling party? Count me in.”

“I’m chasing a mouse,” explained Helen.

“Great sport. I’ll help.”

“No, I don’t want to catch it.” Helen rose and placed the bar on the table. “I think he’s gone now.”

Stephen sat down and looked around him.

“I always feel at home, here,” he said. “It’s the one room I like in this horrible house. Mrs. Oates and I hold our prayer-meetings here.”

“Where’s your dog?” asked Helen.

“In my room. Miss Warren did not come to tea, unfortunately. So the row’s postponed.” “Why d’you have one at all?” asked Helen. “You’re leaving tomorrow. I expect Miss Warren would prefer not to know.”

“No.” Stephen stuck out his prominent chin. “I’d rather come out in the open. Noble of me, when I know the heroic Newton will enlighten her darkness in any case.”

“He wouldn’t tell?” cried Helen incredulously.

“Wouldn’t he? To be frank, Otto was not a blazing success. The poor lad is not used to afternoon tea. Like his master, he’s happier in the kitchen.”

“But Mrs. Newton must have fallen for him,” insisted Helen, who argued along the familiar lines or “love me, love my dog.”.

“If she did, she controlled her passion.” Stephen opened his empty suitcase and turned to Mrs. Oates. “Where are the empties?” he asked. “I thought I’d lift them now, and lug them over to the Bull tonight, to save that poor delicate husband of yours.”

“And I suppose you want to say ‘Goodbye’ to your young lady there?” Mrs. Oates winked at Helen, who-enlightened by her previous gossip-understood the allusion to to daughter of the licensee of the Bull.