stove-pipe that crossed it from end to end. "Stove-pipe's got to go," he muttered, between puffs. "Just a big open fireplace—and logs." He got up and began restlessly to pace the room. He examined Wellington and Blucher again, shaking hands so cordially, the dead and dying tumbled plentifully about their horses' hoofs.
He next observed a sampler, The Lord's Prayer, worked by Agnes Vale, aged nine years, in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and Thirty-six. Seventy-five years ago, Cousin Agnes in England must be named for her . . . . he thought of cousin Agnes, whom he had never seen. He thought of Edmund, his only near relation. How Edmund would laugh if he could see him now! He felt that Edmund would have been better able to cope with Mrs. Machin. He wished that she and the others would go to bed so that he might adventure further. No doubt they were talking him over in the kitchen. Now he heard a shuffling of feet and the click of a bolt. He returned quickly to his chair and crossed his legs.
The door behind him opened. It was the women. Mrs. Machin gave the impression of driving Phoebe before her. The girl's hand was over her mouth, as though at any moment she might explode with laughter. Mrs. Machin gave a curt good night, and they disappeared into the dark passage. Soon the three Scotchmen went through in Indian file. They were in their stockinged feet, and McKay carried a short end of candle. They said, "Good nicht, sir," in a friendly chorus, but kept their eyes shyly averted. Derek waited impatiently for the Englishman, Windmill. It was quite half an hour before he followed the others. He wore slippers and carried a small lamp. He hesitated, smiled pleasantly, and said:
"There is a step down into the hallway, Mr. Vale. I thought I should warn you."
