mean, Simone is waiting. Old Newton is wolfing down the tea-cake." Stephen pulled on his coat. "I'll take the pup down with me. Introduce him to the family, and make us two to one, in the muffin handicap."
"Surely you don't call that large thing a pup," cried Helen, as the Alsatian followed his master into the bathroom.
"He's quite young, really." Stephen's voice was positively tender. "I love dogs—and hate women. Reason. Remind me to tell you the story of my life."
Helen felt slightly forlorn when his whistle died away in the distance. She knew she would miss the pupil. But a second glance around the untidy room reminded her that his absence would mean less work, so she resolved to leave all regret to Simone.
Her tea was calling her downstairs to the kitchen. Not stopping to clear away any litter, she hurried to her own room, and took off her coat, and shoes. As the order for closed shutters only included the basement, ground-floor and first-floor, her own casement banged open to the wind.
In spite of her haste, she could not resist the luxury of lingering there, looking out over the valley, just to enjoy the sense of contrast. She could see only a spongy blackness. It seemed to stir and creep before the breath of the breeze. Not a gleam shone from any window of the sparsely sprinkled cottages.
"I wonder where I stood, looking across at the Summit," she wondered. "It seemed such a long way off, then. And now, I'm inside, safe."
She was visited by no prescience to warn her that—since her return—there had been certain trivial incidents which were the first cracks in the walls of her fortress. Once they were started, nothing could stop the process' of disintegration; and each future development would act as a wedge, to force the fissures into ever-widening breaches, letting in the night.
CHAPTER III. A FIRESIDE STORY
Helen went down to the kitchen, by the back way—a spiral of steep steps, broken up into flights at each floor, by a small landing, where a door connected it with the main staircase. It was covered with the original linoleum—brown-and-biscuit, and small-patterned—like an old-fashioned tile, but still in excellent condition.
To Helen, this dingy back way down represented the essence of romance. It was a delicate filament connecting her with the glamour of the past, and revived memories of spacious and leisured days.
She had been brought up in a tiny mansion-flat, with no room to keep a maid, a hat-box, or a cat. The perambulator was housed in the bathroom, and the larder was thoughtfully built in the only spare recess, which happened to be next to the stove.
When Helen reached the basement-hall, she could hear the welcome rattle of china and see the glow of the kitchen fire through the frosted glass panels of the door. Mrs. Oates was drinking tea from her saucer as she made herself another piece of toast.''
She was a tall, strapping woman, broad-shouldered and muscular, with an ugly, underhung face. She did not wear uniform, and her afternoon skirt was protected by an apron of red and black Welsh flannel.
"I heard you running down all them steep steps," she said. "You're free to use the front."
"Yes I know" replied Helen. "But back-stairs remind me of my granny's house. The servants and the children were never allowed to go up the front way, because of wearing out the carpet."
"Go on," remarked Mrs. Oates politely.
"Yes, indeed, and it was the same with the jam. Pots and pots of it, but the strawberry and raspberry were only for the elders. All the children had to eat was rhubarb, or ginger-and-marrow. How cruel we grown-ups were then."
"Not you. You should say 'them grown-ups.'"
"'Them grown-ups,'" repeated Helen meekly, accepting the correction. "I've come to invite myself to tea, as your husband is away."
"And you're welcome." Mrs. Oates rose to get down fresh china from the Welsh dresser. "I see as how you know the tricks of the trade. You want a brown pot to draw the flavour from the leaves. I'll get out the drawing-room cake for you."
"Shop-cake? Not on your life. I want kitchen dough-cake. You don't know how all this appeals to me, Mrs. Oates. I was thinking of this, about an hour ago, in very different circumstances."
She looked around her with appreciative eyes. The kitchen was a huge room, with an uneven floor, and corners where shadows collected. There was no white enamel, no glass-fronted cabinet, no refrigerator; yet the shabby hearth-rug and broken basket-chairs looked homely and comfortable in the glow from the range.
"What an enormous cavern," said Helen. "It must make a lot of work for you and your husband."
"Oh, it don't worry Oates." Mrs. Oates' voice was bitter.
"All the more places for him to muck up, and me to clean up after him."
"It looks fine. All the same, Miss Warren would have a fit if she saw there were no shutters."
As she spoke, Helen glanced at the small windows, set high up in the walls. They were on a level with the garden, and through the mud-speckled glass, she could see a faint stir of darkness, as the bushes moved in the wind.
"It's only just turned dark," said Mrs. Oates. "They can wait till I've finished my tea."
"But don't you feel nervous, down here all by yourself?"
"D' you mean him?" Mrs. Oates' voice was scornful. "No, miss I've seen too many work-shy men to be scared of anything in trousers. If he tried any of his funny business on me, I'd soon sock him in the jaw."
"But there is a murderer," Helen reminded her.
"He's not likely to trouble us. It's like the Irish Sweep; someone wins it, but it's never you and never me."
They were consoling words and made Helen feel safe and comfortable as she crunched her toast. The grandfather clock ticked pleasantly and the ginger cat purred on the best patch of rug.
Suddenly she felt in the mood for a thrill.
"I wish you would tell me about the murders," she said.
Mrs. Oates stared at her in surprise.
"Why, they was in all the newspapers," she said. "Can't you read?"
"I naturally keep up with all the important things," Helen explained. "But I've never been interested in crime. Only, when it's a local murder, it seems slack to know nothing about it."
"That's right," agreed Mrs. Oates, as she relaxed to gossip. "Well, the first girl was murdered in town. She did a dancing-turn, with no clothes on, at one of the Halls, but she was out of a job. She was in a public, and had one over the eight. They seen her go out of the bar, just before time. When the rest come out, she was lying in the gutter, dead. Her face was as black as that bit of coal."
Helen shuddered.
"The second murder was committed in the town, too, wasn't it?" she asked.
"Yes. She
