know. After all, I suppose they are only children.”

“Wait till you hear,” Gerald answered. “They’re not children—not much! Shall I just tell about them or begin at the beginning?”

“The beginning, of course,” said the stranger.

Mabel lifted her head from his velveteen shoulder and said, “Let me begin, then. I found a ring, and I said it would make me invisible. I said it in play. And it did. I was invisible twenty-one hours. Never mind where I got the ring. Now, Gerald, you go on.”

Gerald went on; for quite a long time he went on, for the story was a splendid one to tell.

“And so,” he ended, “we got them in there; and when seven hours are over, or fourteen, or twenty-one, or something with a seven in it, they’ll just be old coats again. They came alive at half-past nine. I think they’ll stop being it in seven hours—that’s half-past four. Now will you let us go home?”

“I’ll see you home,” said the stranger in a quite new tone of exasperating gentleness. “Come—let’s be going.”

“You don’t believe us,” said Gerald. “Of course you don’t. Nobody could. But I could make you believe if I chose.”

All three stood up, and the stranger stared in Gerald’s eyes till Gerald answered his thought.

“No, I don’t look mad, do I?”

“No, you aren’t. But, come, you’re an extraordinarily sensible boy; don’t you think you may be sickening for a fever or something?”

“And Cathy and Jimmy and Mademoiselle and Eliza, and the man who said‘Guy Fawkes, swelp me!’ and you, you saw them move—you heard them call out. Are you sickening for anything?”

“No—or at least not for anything but information. Come, and I’ll see you home.”

“Mabel lives at the Towers,” said Gerald, as the stranger turned into the broad drive that leads to the big gate.

“No relation to Lord Yalding,” said Mabel hastily—“housekeeper’s niece.” She was holding on to his hand all the way. At the servants’ entrance she put up her face to be kissed, and went in.

“Poor little thing!” said the bailiff, as they went down the drive towards the gate.

He went with Gerald to the door of the school.

“Look here,” said Gerald at parting. “I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to try to undo that door.”

“Discerning!” said the stranger.

“Well—don’t. Or, any way, wait till daylight and let us be there. We can get there by ten.”

“All right—I’ll meet you there by ten,” answered the stranger. “By George! you’re the rummest kids I ever met.”

“We are rum,” Gerald owned, “but so would you be if—Good-night.”

As the four children went over the smooth lawn towards Flora’s Temple they talked, as they had talked all the morning, about the adventures of last night and of Mabel’s bravery. It was not ten, but half-past twelve; for Eliza, backed by Mademoiselle, had insisted on their “clearing up,” and clearing up very thoroughly, the “litter” of last night.

“You’re a Victoria Cross heroine,ef dear, said Cathy warmly. ”You ought to have a statue put up to you.”

“It would come alive if you put it here,” said Gerald grimly.

“I shouldn’t have been afraid,” said Jimmy.

“By daylight,” Gerald assured him, “everything looks so jolly different.”

“I do hope he’ll be there,” Mabel said; “he was such a dear, Cathy—a perfect bailiff, with the soul of a gentleman.”

“He isn’t there, though,” said Jimmy. “I believe you just dreamed him, like you did the statues coming alive.”

They went up the marble steps in the sunshine, and it was difficult to believe that this was the place where only in last night’s moonlight fear had laid such cold hands on the hearts of Mabel and Gerald.

“Shall we open the door,” suggested Kathleen, “and begin to carry home the coats?”

“Let’s listen first,” said Gerald; “perhaps they aren’t only coats yet.”

They laid ears to the hinges of the stone door, behind which last night the Ugly-Wuglies had shrieked and threatened. All was still as the sweet morning itself. It was as they turned away that they saw the man they had come to meet. He was on the other side of Flora’s pedestal. But he was not standing up. He lay there, quite still, on his back, his arms flung wide.

“Oh, look!” cried Cathy, and pointed. His face was a queer greenish colour, and on his forehead there was a cut; its edges were blue, and a little blood had trickled from it on to the white of the marble.

A painted pointed paper face peered out

At the same time Mabel pointed too—but she did