The Enchanted Castle and Five Children and It

“Eh bien?”^ck she said rather impatiently.

“I hope I am not disturbing you,” said Gerald, in whose mouth, it seemed, butter would not have melted.

“But no,” she said, somewhat softened. “What is it that you desire?”

“I thought I ought to come and say how do you do,” said Gerald, “because of you being the lady of the house.”

He held out the newly-washed hand, still damp and red. She took it.

“You are a very polite little boy,” she said.

“Not at all,” said Gerald, more polite than ever. “I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to have us to look after in the holidays.”

“But not at all,” said Mademoiselle in her turn. “I am sure you will be very good childrens.”

Gerald’s look assured her that he and the others would be as near angels as children could be without ceasing to be human.

“We’ll try,” he said earnestly.

“Can one do anything for you?” asked the French governess kindly.

“Oh, no, thank you,” said Gerald. “We don’t want to give you any trouble at all. And I was thinking it would be less trouble for you if we were to go out into the woods all day tomorrow and take our dinner with us—something cold, you know—so as not to be a trouble to the cook.”

“Little deceiver!” she said

“You are very considerate,” said Mademoiselle coldly. Then Gerald’s eyes smiled; they had a trick of doing this when his lips were quite serious. Mademoiselle caught the twinkle, and she laughed and Gerald laughed too.

“Little deceiver!” she said. “Why not say at once you want to be free of surveillance, how you say—overwatching—without pretending it is me you wish to please?”

“You have to be careful with grown-ups,” said Gerald, “but it isn’t all pretence either. We don’t want to trouble you—and we don’t want you to—”

“To trouble you. Eh bien! Your parents, they permit these days at woods?”

“Oh, yes,” said Gerald truthfully.

“Then I will not be more a dragon than the parents. I will forewarn the cook. Are you content?”

“Rather!” said Gerald. “Mademoiselle, you are a dear.”

“A deer?” she repeated—“a stag?”

“No, a—a chérie,”^cl said Gerald—“a regular A1 chérie. And you shan’t repent it. Is there anything we can do for you—wind your wool, or find your spectacles, or—?”

“He thinks me a grandmother!” said Mademoiselle, laughing more than ever. “Go then, and be not more naughty than you must.”

“Well, what luck?” the others asked.

“It’s all right,” said Gerald indifferently. “I told you it would be. The ingenuous youth won the regard of the foreign governess, who in her youth had been the beauty of her humble village.”

“I don’t believe she ever was. She’s too stern,” said Kathleen.

“Ah!” said Gerald, “that’s only because you don’t know how to manage her. She wasn’t stern with me.”

“I say, what a humbug you are though, aren’t you?” said Jimmy.

“No, I’m a dip—what’s-its-name? Something like an ambassador. Dipsoplomatist—that’s what I am. Anyhow, we’ve got our day, and if we don’t find a cave in it my name’s not Jack Robinson.”

Mademoiselle, less stern than Kathleen had ever seen her, presided at supper, which was bread and treacle spread several hours before, and now harder and drier than any other food you can think of Gerald was very polite in handing her butter and cheese, and pressing her to taste the bread and treacle.

“Bah! it is like sand in the mouth—of a dryness! Is it possible this pleases you?”

“No,” said Gerald, “it is not possible, but it is not polite for boys to make remarks about their food!”

She laughed, but there was no more dried bread and treacle for supper after that.

“How do you do it?” Kathleen whispered admiringly as they said good night.

“Oh, it’s quite easy when you’ve once got a grown-up to see what you’re after. You’ll see, I shall drive her with a rein of darning cotton after this.”

Next morning Gerald got up early and gathered a little bunch of pink carnations from a plant which he found hidden among the marigolds. He tied it up with black cotton and laid it on Mademoiselle’s plate. She smiled and looked quite handsome as she stuck the flowers in her belt.

“Do you think it’s quite decent,” Jimmy asked later—“sort of bribing people to let you do as you like with flowers and things and passing them the salt?”

“It’s not that,” said Kathleen suddenly. “I know what Gerald means, only I never think of the things in time myself. You see, if you want grown-ups to be nice to you the least you can do is to be nice to them and think of little things to please them. I never think of any myself. Jerry does; that’s why all the old ladies like him. It’s not bribery. It’s a sort of honesty—like paying for things.”

“Well, anyway,” said Jimmy, putting away the moral question, “we’ve got a ripping day for the woods.”

They had.

The wide High Street, even at the busy morning hour almost as quiet as a dream-street, lay bathed in sunshine; the leaves shone fresh from last night’s rain, but the road was dry, and in the sunshine the very dust of it sparkled like diamonds. The beautiful old houses, standing stout and strong, looked as though they were basking in the sunshine and enjoying it.

“But are there any woods?” asked Kathleen as they passed the market-place.

“It doesn’t much matter about woods,” said Gerald dreamily, “we’re sure to find something. One of the chaps told me his father said when he was a boy there used to be a little cave under the bank in a lane near the Salisbury Road; but he said there was an enchanted castle there too, so perhaps the cave isn’t true either.”

“If we were to get horns,” said Kathleen, “and to blow them very hard all the way, we might find a magic castle.”

“If you’ve got the money to throw away on horns ...” said Jimmy contemptuously.

“Well, I have, as it happens, so there!” said Kathleen. And the horns were bought in a tiny shop with a bulging window full of a tangle of toys and sweets and cucumbers and sour apples.

And the quiet square at the end of the town where the church is, and the houses of the most respectable people, echoed to the sound of horns blown long and loud. But none of the houses turned into enchanted castles.

So they went along the Salisbury Road, which was very hot and dusty, so they agreed to drink one of the bottles of ginger-beer.

“We might as well carry the ginger-beer inside us as inside the bottle,” said Jimmy, “and we can hide the bottle and call for it as we come back.”

Presently they came to a place where the road, as Gerald said, went two ways at once.

“That looks like adventures,” said Kathleen; and they took the right-hand road, and the next time they took a turning it was a lefthand one, so as to be quite fair, Jimmy said, and then a right-hand one and then a left, and so on, till they were completely lost.

“Completely,” said Kathleen; “how jolly!”

And now trees arched overhead, and the banks of the road were high and bushy. The adventurers had long since ceased to blow their horns. It was too tiring to go on doing that, when there was no one to be annoyed by it.

“Oh, kriky!” observed Jimmy suddenly, “let’s sit down a bit and have some of our dinner. We might call it lunch, you know,” he added persuasively.

So they sat down in the hedge and ate the ripe red gooseberries that were to have been their dessert.

And as they sat and rested and wished that their boots did not feel so full of feet, Gerald leaned back against the bushes, and the bushes gave way so that he almost fell over backward. Something had yielded to the pressure of his back, and there was the sound of something heavy that fell.

“Oh, Jimminy!” he remarked, recovering himself suddenly; “there’s something hollow in there—the stone I was leaning against simply went!”

“I wish it was a cave,” said Jimmy; “but of course it isn’t.”

“If we blow the horns perhaps it will be,” said Kathleen, and hastily blew her own.

Gerald reached his hand through the bushes. “I can’t feel anything but air,” he said; “it’s just a hole full of emptiness.” The other two pulled back the bushes. There certainly was a hole in the bank. “I’m going to go in,” observed Gerald.

“Oh, don’t!” said his sister. “I wish you wouldn’t. Suppose there were snakes!”

“Not likely,” said Gerald, but he leaned forward and struck a match. “It is a cave!” he cried, and put his knee on the mossy stone he had been sitting on, scrambled over it, and disappeared.

A breathless pause followed.

“You all right?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes; come on. You’d better come feet first—there’s a bit of a drop.”

“I’ll go next,” said Kathleen, and went—feet first, as advised. The feet waved wildly in the air.

“Look out!” said Gerald in the dark; “you’ll have my eye out. Put your feet down, girl, not up. It’s no use trying to fly here—there’s no room.

He helped her by pulling her feet forcibly down and then lifting her under the arms. She felt rustling dry leaves under her boots, and stood ready to receive Jimmy, who came in head first, like one diving into an unknown sea.

“It is a cave,” said Kathleen.

“The young explorers,” explained Gerald, blocking up the hole of entrance with his shoulders, “dazzled at first by the darkness of the cave, could see nothing.”

“Darkness doesn’t dazzle,” said Jimmy.

“I wish we’d got a candle,” said Kathleen.

“Yes, it does,” Gerald contradicted—“could see nothing. But their dauntless leader, whose eyes had grown used to the dark while the clumsy forms of the others were bunging up the entrance, had made a discovery.”

“Oh, what!” Both the others were used to Gerald’s way of telling a story while he acted it, but they did sometimes wish that he didn’t talk quite so long and so like a book in moments of excitement.

Jimmy came in head first

“He did not reveal the dread secret to his faithful followers till one and all had given him their word of honour to be calm.”

“We’ll be calm all right,” said Jimmy impatiently.

“Well, then,” said Gerald, ceasing suddenly to be a book and becoming a boy, “there’s a light over there—look behind you!”

They looked. And there was. A faint greyness on the brown walls of the cave, and a brighter greyness cut off sharply by a dark line, showed that round a turning or angle of the cave there was daylight.

“Attention!” said Gerald; at least, that was what he meant, though what he said was “ ’Shun!” as becomes the son of a soldier. The others mechanically obeyed.

“You will remain at attention till I give the word ‘Slow march!’ on which you will advance cautiously in open order, following your hero leader, taking care not to tread on the dead and wounded.”

“I wish you wouldn’t! said Kathleen.

“There aren’t any,” said Jimmy, feeling for her hand in the dark; “he only means, take care not to tumble over stones and things.”

Here he found her hand, and she screamed.

“It’s only me,” said Jimmy. “I thought you’d like me to hold it. But you’re just like a girl.”

Their eyes had now begun to get accustomed to the darkness, and all could see that they were in a rough stone cave, that went straight on for about three or four yards and then turned sharply to the right.

“Death or victory!” remarked Gerald. “Now, then—Slow march! ”

He advanced carefully, picking his way among the loose earth and stones that were the floor of the cave. “A sail, a sail!” he cried, as he turned the corner.

“How splendid!” Kathleen drew a long breath as she came out into the sunshine.

“I don’t see any sail,” said Jimmy, following.

The narrow passage ended in a round arch all fringed with ferns and creepers. They passed through the arch into a deep, narrow gully whose banks were of stones, moss-covered; and in the crannies grew more ferns and long grasses. Trees growing on the top of the bank arched across, and the sunlight came through in changing patches of brightness, turning the gully to a roofed corridor of goldy-green. The path, which was of greeny-grey flagstones where heaps of leaves had drifted, sloped steeply down, and at the end of it was another round arch, quite dark inside, above which rose rocks and grass and bushes.

“It’s like the outside of a railway tunnel,” said James.

“It’s the entrance to the enchanted castle,” said Kathleen. “Let’s blow the horns.”

“Dry up!” said Gerald. “The bold Captain, reproving the silly chatter of his subordinates—”

“It’s the entrance to the enchanted castle”

“I like that!” said Jimmy, indignant.

“I thought you would,” resumed Gerald—“of his subordinates, bade them advance with caution and in silence, because after all there might be somebody about, and the other arch might be an ice-house ^cm or something dangerous.”

“What?” asked Kathleen anxiously.

“Bears, perhaps,” said Gerald briefly.

“There aren’t any bears without bars—in England, anyway,” said Jimmy. “They call bears bars in America,” he added absently.

“Quick march!” was Gerald’s only reply.

And they marched. Under the drifted damp leaves the path was firm and stony to their shuffling feet. At the dark arch they stopped.

“There are steps down,” said Jimmy.

“It is an ice-house,” said Gerald.

“Don’t let’s,” said Kathleen.

“Our hero,” said Gerald, “who nothing could dismay, raised the faltering hopes of his abject minions by saying that he was jolly well going on, and they could do as they liked about it.”

“If you call names,” said Jimmy, “you can go on by yourself.” He added, “So there!”

“It’s part of the game, silly,” explained Gerald kindly. “You can be Captain tomorrow, so you’d better hold your jaw now, and begin to think about what names you’ll call us when it’s your turn.”

Very slowly and carefully they went down the steps. A vaulted stone arched over their heads. Gerald struck a match when the last step was found to have no edge, and to be, in fact, the beginning of a passage, turning to the left.

“This,” said Jimmy, “will take us back into the road.”

“Or under it,” said Gerald. “We’ve come down eleven steps.”

They went on, following their leader, who went very slowly for fear, as he explained, of steps. The passage was very dark.

“I don’t half like it!” whispered Jimmy.

Then came a glimmer of daylight that grew and grew, and presently ended in another arch that looked out over a scene so like a picture out of a book about Italy that everyone’s breath was taken away, and they simply walked forward silent and staring. A short avenue of cypresses led, widening as it went, to a marble terrace that lay broad and white in the sunlight. The children, blinking, leaned their arms on the broad, flat balustrade and gazed. Immediately below them was a lake—just like a lake in “The Beauties of Italy”—a lake with swans and an island and weeping willows; beyond it were green slopes dotted with groves of trees, and amid the trees gleamed the white limbs of statues. Against a little hill to the left was a round white building with pillars, and to the right a waterfall came tumbling down among mossy stones to splash into the lake. Steps fed from the terrace to the water, and other steps to the green lawns beside it. Away across the grassy slopes deer were feeding, and in the distance where the groves of trees thickened into what looked almost a forest were enormous shapes of grey stone, like nothing that the children had ever seen before.

“That chap at school—” said Gerald.

“It is an enchanted castle,” said Kathleen.

“I don’t see any castle,” said Jimmy.

“What do you call that, then?” Gerald pointed to where, beyond a belt of lime-trees, white towers and turrets broke the blue of the sky.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone about,” said Kathleen, “and yet it’s all so tidy. I believe it is magic.”

“Magic mowing machines,” Jimmy suggested.

“If we were in a book it would be an enchanted castle—certain to be,” said Kathleen.

“It is an enchanted castle,” said Gerald in hollow tones.

“But there aren’t any.” Jimmy was quite positive.

“How do you know? Do you think there’s nothing in the world but what you’ve seen?” His scorn was crushing.

“I think magic went out when people began to have steam-engines,” Jimmy insisted, “and newspapers, and telephones and wireless telegraphing.”

“Wireless is rather like magic when you come to think of it,” said Gerald.

“Oh, that sort!” Jimmy’s contempt was deep.

“Perhaps there’s given up being magic because people didn’t believe in it any more,” said Kathleen.

“This is an enchanted garden”

“Well, don’t let’s spoil the show with any silly old not believing,” said Gerald with decision. “I’m going to believe in magic as hard as I can. This is an enchanted garden, and that’s an enchanted castle, and I’m jolly well going to explore. The dauntless knight then led the way, leaving his ignorant squires to follow or not, just as they jolly well chose.” He rolled off the balustrade and strode firmly down towards the lawn, his boots making, as they went, a clatter full of determination.

The others followed. There never was such a garden—out of a picture or a fairy-tale. They passed quite close by the deer, who only raised their pretty heads to look, and did not seem startled at all. And after a long stretch of turf they passed under the heaped-up heavy masses of lime-trees and came into a rose-garden, bordered with thick, close-cut yew hedges, and lying red and pink and green and white in the sun, like a giant’s many-coloured, highly-scented pocket-handkerchief.

“I know we shall meet a gardener in a minute, and he’ll ask what we’re doing here. And then what will you say?” Kathleen asked with her nose in a rose.

“I shall say we have lost our way, and it will be quite true,” said Gerald.

But they did not meet a gardener or anybody else, and the feeling of magic got thicker and thicker, till they were almost afraid of the sound of their feet in the great silent place. Beyond the rose garden was a yew hedge with an arch cut in it, and it was the beginning of a maze like the one in Hampton Court.²

“Now,” said Gerald, “you mark my words. In the middle of this maze we shall find the secret enchantment. Draw your swords, my merry men all, and hark forward tallyho in the utmost silence.”

Which they did.

It was very hot in the maze, between the close yew hedges, and the way to the maze’s heart was hidden well. Again and again they found themselves at the black yew arch that opened on the rose garden, and they were all glad that they had brought large, clean pocket-handkerchiefs with them.

It was when they found themselves there for the fourth time that Jimmy suddenly cried, “Oh, I wish—” and then stopped short very suddenly. “Oh!” he added in quite a different voice, “where’s the dinner?” And then in a stricken silence they all remembered that the basket with the dinner had been left at the entrance of the cave. Their thoughts dwelt fondly on the slices of cold mutton, the six tomatoes, the bread and butter, the screwed-up paper of salt, the apple turnovers, and the little thick glass that one drank the ginger-beer out of.

“Let’s go back,” said Jimmy, “now this minute, and get our things and have our dinner.”

“Let’s have one more try at the maze. I hate giving things up,” said Gerald.

“I am so hungry!” said Jimmy.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” asked Gerald bitterly.

“I wasn’t before.”

“Then you can’t be now. You don’t get hungry all in a minute. What’s that?”

“That” was a gleam of red that lay at the foot of the yew hedge—a thin little line, that you would hardly have noticed unless you had been staring in a fixed and angry way at the roots of the hedge.

It was a thread of cotton. Gerald picked it up. One end of it was tied to a thimble with holes in it, and the other—

“There is no other end,” said Gerald, with firm triumph. “It’s a clue—that’s what it is. What price cold mutton now? I’ve always felt something magic would happen some day, and now it has.”

“I expect the gardener put it there,” said Jimmy.

“With a Princess’s silver thimble on it? Look! there’s a crown on the thimble.”

There was.

“Come,” said Gerald in low, urgent tones, “if you are adventurers be adventurers; and anyhow, I expect someone has gone along the road and bagged the mutton hours ago.”

He walked forward, winding the red thread round his fingers as he went. And it was a clue, and it led them right into the middle of the maze. And in the very middle of the maze they came upon the wonder.

The red clue led them up two stone steps to a round grass plot. There was a sun-dial in the middle, and all round against the yew hedge a low, wide marble seat. The red clue ran straight across the grass and by the sun-dial, and ended in a small brown hand with jewelled rings on every finger. The hand was, naturally, attached to an arm, and that had many bracelets on it, sparkling with red and blue and green stones. The arm wore a sleeve of pink and gold brocaded silk, faded a little here and there but still extremely imposing, and the sleeve was part of a dress, which was worn by a lady who lay on the stone seat asleep in the sun. The rosy gold dress fell open over an embroidered petticoat of a soft green colour. There was old yellow lace the colour of scalded cream, and a thin white veil spangled with silver stars covered the face.

The red clue ran straight across the grass

“It’s the enchanted Princess,” said Gerald, now really impressed. “I told you so.

“It’s the Sleeping Beauty,” said Kathleen. “It is—look how old-fashioned her clothes are, like the pictures of Marie Antoinette’s ladies in the history book. She has slept for a hundred years. Oh, Gerald, you’re the eldest; you must be the Prince, and we never knew it.”

“She isn’t really a Princess,” said Jimmy. But the others laughed at him, partly because his saying things like that was enough to spoil any game, and partly because they really were not at all sure that it was not a Princess who lay there as still as the sunshine. Every stage of the adventure—the cave, the wonderful gardens, the maze, the clue, had deepened the feeling of magic, till now Kathleen and Gerald were almost completely bewitched.

“Lift the veil up, Jerry,” said Kathleen in a whisper; “if she isn’t beautiful we shall know she can’t be the Princess.”

“Lift it yourself,” said Gerald.

“I expect you’re forbidden to touch the figures,” said Jimmy.

“It’s not wax, silly,” said his brother.

“No,” said his sister, “wax wouldn’t be much good in this sun. And, besides, you can see her breathing. It’s the Princess right enough.” She very gently lifted the edge of the veil and turned it back. The Princess’s face was small and white between long plaits of black hair. Her nose was straight and her brows finely traced. There were a few freckles on cheekbones and nose.

“No wonder,” whispered Kathleen, “sleeping all these years in all this sun!” Her mouth was not a rosebud. But all the same—

“Isn’t she lovely!” Kathleen murmured.

“Not so dusty,”^cn Gerald was understood to reply.

“Now, Jerry,” said Kathleen firmly, “you’re the eldest.”

“Of course I am,” said Gerald uneasily.

“Well, you’ve got to wake the Princess.”

“She’s not a Princess,” said Jimmy, with his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers; “she’s only a little girl dressed up.”

“But she’s in long dresses,” urged Kathleen.

“Yes, but look what a little way down her frock her feet come. She wouldn’t be any taller than Jerry if she was to stand up.”

“Now then,” urged Kathleen. “Jerry, don’t be silly. You’ve got to do it.”

“Do what?” asked Gerald, kicking his left boot with his right.

“Why, kiss her awake, of course.”

“Not me!” was Gerald’s unhesitating rejoinder.

“Well, someone’s got to.”

“She’d go for me as likely as not the minute she woke up,” said Gerald anxiously.

“I’d do it like a shot,” said Kathleen, “but I don’t suppose it ’ud make any difference me kissing her.”

She did it; and it didn’t. The Princess still lay in deep slumber.

“Then you must, Jimmy I dare say you’ll do. Jump back quickly before she can hit you.”

“She won’t hit him, he’s such a little chap,” said Gerald.

“Little yourself!” said Jimmy “I don’t mind kissing her. I’m not a coward, like Some People. Only if I do, I’m going to be the dauntless leader for the rest of the day.”

“No, look here—hold on!”cried Gerald, “perhaps I’d better—” But, in the meantime, Jimmy had planted a loud, cheerful-sounding kiss on the Princess’s pale cheek, and now the three stood breathless, awaiting the result.

And the result was that the Princess opened large, dark eyes, stretched out her arms, yawned a little, covering her mouth with a small brown hand, and said, quite plainly and distinctly, and without any room at all for mistake:

“Then the hundred years are over? How the yew hedges have grown! Which of you is my Prince that aroused me from my deep sleep of so many long years?”

“I did,” said Jimmy fearlessly, for she did not look as though she were going to slap anyone.

“My noble preserver!” said the Princess, and held out her hand. Jimmy shook it vigorously.

“But I say,” said he, “you aren’t really a Princess, are you?”

“Of course I am,” she answered; “who else could I be? Look at my crown!” She pulled aside the spangled veil, and showed beneath it a coronet of what even Jimmy could not help seeing to be diamonds.

The three stood breathless, awaiting the result

“But—” said Jimmy.

“Why,” she said, opening her eyes very wide, you must have known about my being here, or you’d never have come. How did you get past the dragons?”

Gerald ignored the question. “I say,” he said, “do you really believe in magic, and all that?”

“I ought to,” she said, “if anybody does. Look, here’s the place where I pricked my finger with the spindle.” She showed a little scar on her wrist.

“Then this really is an enchanted castle?”

“Of course it is,” said the Princess. “How stupid you are!” She stood up, and her pink brocaded dress lay in bright waves about her feet.

“I said her dress would be too long,” said Jimmy.

“It was the right length when I went to sleep,” said the Princess; “it must have grown in the hundred years.”

“I don’t believe you’re a Princess at all,” said Jimmy; “at least

“Don’t bother about believing it, if you don’t like,” said the Princess. “It doesn’t so much matter what you believe as what I am.” She turned to the others.

“Let’s go back to the castle,” she said, “and I’ll show you all my lovely jewels and things. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Yes,” said Gerald with very plain hesitation. “But—”

“But what?” The Princess’s tone was impatient.

“But we’re most awfully hungry.”

“Oh, so am I!” cried the Princess.

“We’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

“And it’s three now,” said the Princess, looking at the sun-dial. “Why, you’ve had nothing to eat for hours and hours and hours. But think of me! I haven’t had anything to eat for a hundred years. Come along to the castle.”

“The mice will have eaten everything,” said Jimmy sadly. He saw now that she really was a Princess.

“Not they,” cried the Princess joyously. “You forget everything’s enchanted here. Time simply stood still for a hundred years. Come along, and one of you must carry my train, or I shan’t be able to move now it’s grown such a frightful length.”

CHAPTER II

When you are young so many things are difficult to believe, and yet the dullest people will tell you that they are true—such things, for instance, as that the earth goes round the sun, and that it is not flat but round. But the things that seem really likely, like fairy-tales and magic, are, so say the grown-ups, not true at all. Yet they are so easy to believe, especially when you see them happening. And, as I am always telling you, the most wonderful things happen to all sorts of people, only you never hear about them because the people think that no one will believe their stories, and so they don’t tell them to any one except me. And they tell me, because they know that I can believe anything.

When Jimmy had awakened the Sleeping Princess, and she had invited the three children to go with her to her palace and get something to eat, they all knew quite surely that they had come into a place of magic happenings. And they walked in a slow procession along the grass towards the castle. The Princess went first, and Kathleen carried her shining train; then came Jimmy, and Gerald came last. They were all quite sure that they had walked right into the middle of a fairy-tale, and they were the more ready to believe it because they were so tired and hungry. They were, in fact, so hungry and tired that they hardly noticed where they were going, or observed the beauties of the formal gardens through which the pink-silk Princess was leading them. They were in a sort of dream, from which they only partially awakened to find themselves in a big hall, with suits of armour and old flags round the walls, the skins of beasts on the floor, and heavy oak tables and benches ranged along it.

The Princess entered, slow and stately, but once inside she twitched her sheeny^co train out of Jimmy’s hand and turned to the three.

“You just wait here a minute,” she said, “and mind you don’t talk while I’m away. This castle is crammed with magic, and I don’t know what will happen if you talk.“ And with that, picking up the thick goldy-pink folds under her arms, she ran out, as Jimmy said afterwards, ”most unprincesslike,” showing as she ran black stockings and black strap shoes.

Jimmy wanted very much to say that he didn’t believe anything would happen, only he was afraid something would happen if he did, so he merely made a face and put out his tongue. The others pretended not to see this, which was much more crushing than anything they could have said. So they sat in silence, and Gerald ground the heel of his boot upon the marble floor. Then the Princess came back, very slowly and kicking her long skirts in front of her at every step. She could not hold them up now because of the tray she carried.

It was not a silver tray, as you might have expected, but an oblong tin one. She set it down noisily on the end of the long table and breathed a sigh of relief

“Oh! it was heavy,” she said. I don’t know what fairy feast the children’s fancy had been busy with. Anyhow, this was nothing like it. The heavy tray held a loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, and a brown jug of water. The rest of its heaviness was just plates and mugs and knives.

“Come along,” said the Princess hospitably. “I couldn’t find anything but bread and cheese—but it doesn’t matter, because everything’s magic here, and unless you have some dreadful secret fault the bread and cheese will turn into anything you like. What would you like?” she asked Kathleen.

“Roast chicken,” said Kathleen, without hesitation.

The pinky Princess cut a slice of bread and laid it on a dish.

“There you are,” she said, “roast chicken. Shall I carve it, or will you?”

“You, please,” said Kathleen, and received a piece of dry bread on a plate.

“Green peas?” asked the Princess, cut a piece of cheese and laid it beside the bread.

Kathleen began to eat the bread, cutting it up with knife and fork as you would eat chicken. It was no use owning that she didn’t see any chicken and peas, or anything but cheese and dry bread, because that would be owning that she had some dreadful secret fault.

“It’s a game, isn’t it?” asked Jimmy

“If I have, it is a secret, even from me,” she told herself

The others asked for roast beef and cabbage—and got it, she supposed, though to her it only looked like dry bread and Dutch cheese.

“I do wonder what my dreadful secret fault is,” she thought, as the Princess remarked that, as for her, she could fancy a slice of roast peacock. “This one,” she added, lifting a second mouthful of dry bread on her fork, “is quite delicious.”

“It’s a game, isn’t it?” asked Jimmy suddenly.

“What’s a game?” asked the Princess, frowning.

“Pretending it’s beef—the bread and cheese, I mean.”

“A game? But it is beef Look at it,” said the Princess, opening her eyes very wide.

“Yes, of course,” said Jimmy feebly. “I was only joking.”

Bread and cheese is not perhaps so good as roast beef or chicken or peacock (I’m not sure about the peacock. I never tasted peacock, did you?); but bread and cheese is, at any rate, very much better than nothing when you have gone on having nothing since breakfast (gooseberries and ginger-beer hardly count) and it is long past your proper dinner-time. Everyone ate and drank and felt much better.

“Now,” said the Princess, brushing the breadcrumbs off her green silk lap, “if you’re sure you won’t have any more meat you can come and see my treasures. Sure you won’t take the least bit more chicken? No? Then follow me.”

She got up and they followed her down the long hall to the end where the great stone stairs ran up at each side and joined in a broad flight leading to the gallery above. Under the stairs was a hanging of tapestry.

“Beneath this arras,” said the Princess, “is the door leading to my private apartments.” She held the tapestry up with both hands, for it was heavy, and showed a little door that had been hidden by it.

“The key,” she said, “hangs above.”

And so it did, on a large rusty nail.

“Put it in,” said the Princess, “and turn it.”

Gerald did so, and the great key creaked and grated in the lock.

“Now push,” she said; “push hard, all of you.”

They pushed hard, all of them. The door gave way, and they fell over each other into the dark space beyond.

The Princess dropped the curtain and came after them, closing the door behind her.

“Look out!” she said; “look out! there are two steps down.”

“Thank you,” said Gerald, rubbing his knee at the bottom of the steps. “We found that out for ourselves.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Princess, “but you can’t have hurt yourselves much. Go straight on. There aren’t any more steps.”

They went straight on—in the dark.

“When you come to the door just turn the handle and go in. Then stand still till I find the matches. I know where they are.”

“Did they have matches a hundred years ago?” asked Jimmy.

“I meant the tinder-box,” said the Princess quickly. “We always called it the matches. Don’t you? Here, let me go first.”

She did, and when they had reached the door she was waiting for them with a candle in her hand. She thrust it on Gerald.

“Hold it steady,” she said, and undid the shutters of a long window, so that first a yellow streak and then a blazing great oblong of light flashed at them and the room was full of sunshine.

She was waiting for them with a candle in her hand

“It makes the candle look quite silly,” said Jimmy.

“So it does,” said the Princess, and blew out the candle. Then she took the key from the outside of the door, put it in the inside key-hole, and turned it.

The room they were in was small and high. Its domed ceiling was of deep blue with gold stars painted on it. The walls were of wood, panelled and carved, and there was no furniture in it whatever.

“This,” said the Princess, “is my treasure chamber.”

“But where,” asked Kathleen politely, “are the treasures?”

“Don’t you see them?” asked the Princess.

“No, we don‘t,” said Jimmy bluntly. “You don’t come that bread-and-cheese game with me—not twice over, you don’t!”

“If you really don’t see them,” said the Princess, “I suppose I shall have to say the charm. Shut your eyes, please. And give me your word of honour you won’t look till I tell you, and that you’ll never tell anyone what you’ve seen.”

Their words of honour were something that the children would rather not have given just then, but they gave them all the same, and shut their eyes tight.

“Wiggadil yougadoo begadee leegadeeve nowgadow?” said the Princess rapidly; and they heard the swish of her silk train moving across the room. Then there was a creaking, rustling noise.

“She’s locking us in!” cried Jimmy.

“Your word of honour,” gasped Gerald.

“Oh, do be quick!” moaned Kathleen.

“You may look,” said the voice of the Princess. And they looked. The room was not the same room, yet—yes, the starry-vaulted blue ceiling was there, and below it half a dozen feet of the dark panelling, but below that the walls of the room blazed and sparkled with white and blue and red and green and gold and silver. Shelves ran round the room, and on them were gold cups and silver dishes, and platters and goblets set with gems, ornaments of gold and silver, tiaras of diamonds, necklaces of rubies, strings of emeralds and pearls, all set out in unimaginable splendour against a background of faded blue velvet. It was like the Crown jewels that you see when your kind uncle takes you to the Tower,^cp only there seemed to be far more jewels than you or anyone else has ever seen together at the Tower or anywhere else.

The three children remained breathless, open-mouthed, staring at the sparkling splendours all about them, while the Princess stood, her arm stretched out in a gesture of command, and a proud smile on her lips.

“My word! ” said Gerald, in a low whisper. But no one spoke out loud. They waited as if spellbound for the Princess to speak.

She spoke.

“What price bread-and-cheese games now?” she asked triumphantly. “Can I do magic, or can’t I?”

“You can; oh, you can!” said Kathleen.

“May we—may we touch?” asked Gerald.

“All that’s mine is yours,” said the Princess, with a generous wave of her brown hand, and added quickly, “Only, of course, you mustn’t take anything away with you.”

“We’re not thieves!” said Jimmy. The others were already turning over the wonderful things on the blue velvet shelves.

“Perhaps not,” said the Princess, “but you’re a very unbelieving little boy. You think I can’t see inside you, but I can. I know what you’ve been thinking.”

“What?” asked Jimmy.

“Oh, you know well enough,” said the Princess. “You’re thinking about the bread and cheese that I changed into beef, and about your secret fault. I say, let’s all dress up and you be princes and princesses too.”

“To crown our hero,” said Gerald, lifting a gold crown with a cross on the top, “was the work of a moment.” He put the crown on his head, and added a collar of SS^cq and a zone of sparkling emeralds, which would not quite meet round his middle. He turned from fixing it by an ingenious adaptation of his belt to find the others already decked with diadems, necklaces, and rings.

“How splendid you look!” said the Princess, “and how I wish your clothes were prettier. What ugly clothes people wear nowadays! A hundred years ago—”

Kathleen stood quite still with a diamond bracelet raised in her hand.

“I say,” she said. “The King and Queen?”

“What King and Queen?” asked the Princess.

“Your father and mother, your sorrowing parents,” said Kathleen. “They’ll have waked up by now. Won’t they be wanting to see you, after a hundred years, you know?”

“Oh—ah—yes,” said the Princess slowly. “I embraced my rejoicing parents when I got the bread and cheese. They’re having their dinner. They won’t expect me yet. Here,” she added, hastily putting a ruby bracelet on Kathleen’s arm, ”see how splendid that is!”

Looking at herself in the little silver-framed mirror

Kathleen would have been quite content to go on all day trying on different jewels and looking at herself in the little silver-framed mirror that the Princess took from one of the shelves, but the boys were soon weary of this amusement.

“Look here,” said Gerald, “if you’re sure your father and mother won’t want you, let’s go out and have a jolly good game of something. You could play besieged castles awfully well in that maze—unless you can do any more magic tricks.”

“You forget,” said the Princess, “I’m grown up. I don’t play games. And I don’t like to do too much magic at a time, it’s so tiring. Besides, it’ll take us ever so long to put all these things back in their proper places.”

It did. The children would have laid the jewels just anywhere; but the Princess showed them that every necklace, or ring, or bracelet had its own home on the velvet—a slight hollowing in the shelf beneath, so that each stone fitted into its own little nest.

As Kathleen was fitting the last shining ornament into its proper place, she saw that part of the shelf near it held, not bright jewels, but rings and brooches and chains, as well as queer things that she did not know the names of, and all were of dull metal and odd shapes.

“What’s all this rubbish?” she asked.

“Rubbish, indeed!” said the Princess. “Why those are all magic things! This bracelet—anyone who wears it has got to speak the truth. This chain makes you as strong as ten men; if you wear this spur your horse will go a mile a minute; or if you’re walking it’s the same as seven-league boots.”^cr

“What does this brooch do?” asked Kathleen, reaching out her hand. The princess caught her by the wrist.

“You mustn’t touch,” she said; “if anyone but me touches them all the magic goes out at once and never comes back. That brooch will give you any wish you like.”

“And this ring?” Jimmy pointed.

“Oh, that makes you invisible.”

“What’s this?” asked Gerald, showing a curious buckle.

“Oh, that undoes the effect of all the other charms.”

“Do you mean really?” Jimmy asked. “You’re not just kidding?”

“Kidding indeed!” repeated the Princess scornfully. “I should have thought I’d shown you enough magic to prevent you speaking to a Princess like that!”

“I say,” said Gerald, visibly excited. “You might show us how some of the things act. Couldn’t you give us each a wish?”

The Princess did not at once answer. And the minds of the three played with granted wishes—brilliant yet thoroughly reasonable—the kind of wish that never seems to occur to people in fairy-tales when they suddenly get a chance to have their three wishes granted.

“No,” said the Princess suddenly, “no; I can’t give wishes to you, it only gives me wishes. But I’ll let you see the ring make me invisible. Only you must shut your eyes while I do it.”

They shut them.

“Count fifty,” said the Princess, “and then you may look. And then you must shut them again, and count fifty, and I’ll reappear.”

Gerald counted, aloud. Through the counting one could hear a creaking, rustling sound.

“Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!” said Gerald, and they opened their eyes.

They were alone in the room. The jewels had vanished and so had the Princess.

“She’s gone out by the door, of course,” said Jimmy, but the door was locked.

“That is magic,” said Kathleen breathlessly.

“Maskelyne and Devant^cs can do that trick,” said Jimmy. “And I want my tea.”

“Your tea!” Gerald’s tone was full of contempt. “The lovely Princess,” he went on, “reappear’d as soon as our hero had finished counting fifty. One, two, three, four—”

Gerald and Kathleen had both closed their eyes. But somehow Jimmy hadn’t. He didn’t mean to cheat, he just forgot. And as Gerald’s count reached twenty he saw a panel under the window open slowly.

“Her,” he said to himself. “I knew it was a trick!” and at once shut his eyes, like an honourable little boy.

On the word “fifty” six eyes opened. And the panel was closed and there was no Princess.

“She hasn’t pulled it off this time,” said Gerald.

“Perhaps you’d better count again,” said Kathleen.

“I believe there’s a cupboard under the window,” said Jimmy, “and she’s hidden in it. Secret panel, you know.”

“You looked! that’s cheating,” said the voice of the Princess so close to his ear that he quite jumped.

“I didn’t cheat.”

“Where on earth—What ever—” said all three together. For still there was no Princess to be seen.

“Come back visible, Princess dear,” said Kathleen. “Shall we shut our eyes and count again?”

“Don’t be silly!” said the voice of the Princess, and it sounded very cross.

“We’re not silly,” said Jimmy, and his voice was cross too. “Why can’t you come back and have done with it? You know you’re only hiding.”

“Don’t!” said Kathleen gently. “She is invisible, you know.”

“So should I be if I got into the cupboard,” said Jimmy.

“Oh yes,” said the sneering tone of the Princess, “you think yourselves very clever, I dare say. But I don’t mind. We’ll play that you can’t see me, if you like.”

“Well, but we can’t,” said Gerald. “It’s no use getting in a wax. If you’re hiding, as Jimmy says, you’d better come out. If you’ve really turned invisible, you’d better make yourself visible again.”

“Do you really mean,” asked a voice quite changed, but still the Princess’s, “that you can’t see me?”

“Can’t you see we can’t?” asked Jimmy rather unreasonably.

The sun was blazing in at the window; the eight-sided room was very hot, and everyone was getting cross.

“You can’t see me?” There was the sound of a sob in the voice of the invisible Princess.

“No, I tell you,” said Jimmy, “and I want my tea—and—”

What he was saying was broken off short, as one might break a stick of sealing wax. And then in the golden afternoon a really quite horrid thing happened: Jimmy suddenly leaned backwards, then forwards, his eyes opened wide and his mouth too. Backward and forward he went, very quickly and abruptly, then stood still.

“Oh, he’s in a fit! Oh, Jimmy, dear Jimmy!” cried Kathleen, hurrying to him. “What is it, dear, what is it?”

“It’s not a fit,” gasped Jimmy angrily. “She shook me.”

“Yes,” said the voice of the Princess, “and I’ll shake him again if he keeps on saying he can’t see me.”

“You’d better shake me,” said Gerald angrily. “I’m nearer your own size.”

And instantly she did. But not for long. The moment Gerald felt hands on his shoulders he put up his own and caught those other hands by the wrists. And there he was, holding wrists that he couldn’t see. It was a dreadful sensation. An invisible kick made him wince, but he held tight to the wrists.

Backward and forward he went

“Cathy,” he cried, “come and hold her legs; she’s kicking me.”

“Where?” cried Kathleen, anxious to help. “I don’t see any legs.”

“This is her hands I’ve got,” cried Gerald. “She is invisible right enough. Get hold of this hand, and then you can feel your way down to her legs.”

Kathleen did so. I wish I could make you understand how very, very uncomfortable and frightening it is to feel, in broad daylight, hands and arms that you can’t see.

“I won’t have you hold my legs,” said the invisible Princess, struggling violently.

“What are you so cross about?” Gerald was quite calm. “You said you’d be invisible and you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are really. Look in the glass.”

“I’m not; I can’t be.”

“Look in the glass,” Gerald repeated, quite unmoved.

“Let go, then,” she said.

Gerald did, and the moment he had done so he found it impossible to believe that he really had been holding invisible hands.

“You’re just pretending not to see me,” said the Princess anxiously, “aren’t you? Do say you are. You’ve had your joke with me. Don’t keep it up. I don’t like it.”

“On our sacred word of honour,” said Gerald, “you’re still invisible.”

There was a silence. Then, “Come,” said the Princess. “I’ll let you out, and you can go. I’m tired of playing with you.”

They followed her voice to the door, and through it, and along the little passage into the hall. No one said anything. Everyone felt very uncomfortable.

“Let’s get out of this,” whispered Jimmy as they got to the end of the hall.

But the voice of the Princess said: “Come out this way; it’s quicker. I think you’re perfectly hateful. I’m sorry I ever played with you. Mother always told me not to play with strange children.”

A door abruptly opened, though no hand was seen to touch it. “Come through, can’t you!” said the voice of the Princess.

It was a little ante-room, with long, narrow mirrors between its long, narrow windows.

“Good-bye,” said Gerald. “Thanks for giving us such a jolly time. Let’s part friends,” he added, holding out his hand.

An unseen hand was slowly put in his, which closed on it, vice-like.

“Now,” he said, “you’ve jolly well got to look in the glass and own that we’re not liars.”

He led the invisible Princess to one of the mirrors, and held her in front of it by the shoulders.

“Now,” he said, “you just look for yourself.”

There was a silence, and then a cry of despair rang through the room.

“Oh—oh—oh! I am invisible. Whatever shall I do?”

“Take the ring off,” said Kathleen, suddenly practical.

Another silence.

“I can’t!” cried the Princess. “It won’t come off. But it can’t be the ring; rings don’t make you invisible.”

“You said this one did,” said Kathleen, “and it has.”

“But it can’t,” said the Princess. “I was only playing at magic. I just hid in the secret cupboard—it was only a game. Oh, whatever shall I do?”

“A game?” said Gerald slowly; “but you can do magic—the invisible jewels, and you made them come visible.”

“Oh, it’s only a secret spring and the panelling slides up. Oh, what am I to do?”

Kathleen moved towards the voice and gropingly got her arms round a pink-silk waist that she couldn’t see. Invisible arms clasped her, a hot invisible cheek was laid against hers, and warm invisible tears lay wet between the two faces.

“Don’t cry, dear,” said Kathleen; “let me go and tell the King and Queen.”

“The—?”

“Your royal father and mother.”

“Oh, don’t mock me!” said the poor Princess. “You know that was only a game, too, like—”

“Like the bread and cheese,” said Jimmy triumphantly. “I knew that was!”

“But your dress and being asleep in the maze, and—”

“Oh, I dressed up for fun, because everyone’s away at the fair, and I put the clue just to make it all more real. I was playing at Fair Rosamond first, and then I heard you talking in the maze,³ and I thought what fun; and now I’m invisible, and I shall never come right again, never—I know I shan’t! It serves me right for lying, but I didn’t really think you’d believe it—not more than half, that is,” she added hastily, trying to be truthful.

“But if you’re not the Princess, who are you?” asked Kathleen, still embracing the unseen.

“I’m—my aunt lives here,” said the invisible Princess. “She may be home any time. Oh, what shall I do?”

“Perhaps she knows some charm—”

“Oh, nonsense!” said the voice sharply; “she doesn’t believe in charms. She would be so vexed. Oh, I daren’t let her see me like this!” she added wildly. “And all of you here, too. She’d be so dreadfully cross.

The beautiful magic castle that the children had believed in now felt as though it were tumbling about their ears. All that was left was the invisibleness of the Princess. But that, you will own, was a good deal.

“I just said it,” moaned the voice, “and it came true. I wish I’d never played at magic—I wish I’d never played at anything at all.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Gerald said kindly. “Let’s go out into the garden, near the lake, where it’s cool, and we’ll hold a solemn council. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

“Oh!” cried Kathleen suddenly, “the buckle; that makes magic come undone!”

“It doesn’t really,” murmured the voice that seemed to speak without lips. “I only just said that.”

“You only ‘just said’ about the ring,” said Gerald. “Anyhow, let’s try.”

“Not you—me,” said the voice. “You go down to the Temple of Flora, by the lake. I’ll go back to the jewel-room by myself. Aunt might see you.”

“She won’t see you,” said Jimmy.

“Don’t rub it in,” said Gerald. “Where is the Temple of Flora?”

“That’s the way,” the voice said; “down those steps and along the winding path through the shrubbery. You can’t miss it. It’s white marble, with a statue goddess inside.”

The three children went down to the white marble Temple of Flora that stood close against the side of the little hill, and sat down in its shadowy inside. It had arches all round except against the hill behind the statue, and it was cool and restful.

They had not been there five minutes before the feet of a runner sounded loud on the gravel. A shadow, very black and distinct, fell on the white marble floor.

“Your shadow’s not invisible, anyhow,” said Jimmy.

“Your shadow’s not invisible, anyhow”

“Oh, bother my shadow!” the voice of the Princess replied. “We left the key inside the door, and it’s shut itself with the wind, and it’s a spring lock!”

There was a heartfelt pause.

Then Gerald said, in his most business-like manner:

“Sit down, Princess, and we’ll have a thorough good palaver about it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Jimmy, “if we was to wake up and find it was dreams.”

“No such luck,” said the voice.

“Well,” said Gerald, “first of all, what’s your name, and if you’re not a Princess, who are you?”

“I’m—I’m,” said a voice broken with sobs, “I’m the—housekeeper’s —niece—at—the—castle—and my name’s Mabel Prowse.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” said Jimmy, without a shadow of truth, because how could he? The others were silent. It was a moment full of agitation and confused ideas.

“Well, any how,” said Gerald, “you belong here.”

“Yes,” said the voice, and it came from the floor, as though its owner had flung herself down in the madness of despair. “Oh yes, I belong here right enough, but what’s the use of belonging anywhere if you’re invisible?”

CHAPTER III

Those of my readers who have gone about much with an invisible companion will not need to be told how awkward the whole business is. For one thing, however much you may have been convinced that your companion is invisible, you will, I feel sure, have found yourself every now and then saying, “This must be a dream!” or “I know I shall wake up in half a sec!” And this was the case with Gerald, Kathleen, and Jimmy as they sat in the white marble Temple of Flora, looking out through its arches at the sunshiny park and listening to the voice of the enchanted Princess, who really was not a Princess at all, but just the housekeeper’s niece, Mabel Prowse; though, as Jimmy said, “she was enchanted, right enough.”

“It’s no use talking,” she said again and again, and the voice came from an empty-looking space between two pillars; “I never believed anything would happen, and now it has.”

“Well,” said Gerald kindly, “can we do anything for you? Because, if not, I think we ought to be going.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy; “I do want my tea!”

“Tea!” said the unseen Mabel scornfully. “Do you mean to say you’d go off to your teas and leave me after getting me into this mess?”

“Well, of all the unfair Princesses I ever met!” Gerald began. But Kathleen interrupted.

“Oh, don’t rag her,” she said. “Think how horrid it must be to be invisible! ”

“I don’t think,” said the hidden Mabel, “that my aunt likes me very much as it is. She wouldn’t let me go to the fair because I’d forgotten to put back some old trumpery^ct shoe that Queen Elizabeth^cu wore—I got it out from the glass case to try it on.”

“Did it fit?” asked Kathleen, with interest.

“Not it—much too small,” said Mabel. “I don’t believe it ever fitted anyone.”

“I do want my tea!” said Jimmy

“I do really think perhaps we ought to go,” said Gerald. “You see, it isn’t as if we could do anything for you.”

“You’ll have to tell your aunt,” said Kathleen kindly.

“No, no, no!” moaned Mabel invisibly; “take me with you. I’ll leave her a note to say I’ve run away to sea.”

“Girls don’t run away to sea.”

“They might,” said the stone floor between the pillars, “as stowaways, if nobody wanted a cabin boy—cabin girl, I mean.”

“I’m sure you oughtn’t,” said Kathleen firmly.

“Well, what am I to do?”

“Really,” said Gerald, “I don’t know what the girl can do. Let her come home with us and have—”

“Tea—oh, yes,” said Jimmy, jumping up.

“And have a good council.”

“After tea,” said Jimmy.

“But her aunt’ll find she’s gone.”

“So she would if I stayed.”

“Oh, come on,” said Jimmy.

“But the aunt’ll think something’s happened to her.”

“So it has.”

“And she’ll tell the police, and they’ll look everywhere for me.”

“They’ll never find you,” said Gerald. “Talk of impenetrable disguises!”

“I’m sure,” said Mabel, “aunt would much rather never see me again than see me like this. She’d never get over it; it might kill her—she has spasms as it is. I’ll write to her, and we’ll put it in the big letter-box at the gate as we go out. Has anyone got a bit of pencil and a scrap of paper?”

Gerald had a note-book, with leaves of the shiny kind which you have to write on, not with a blacklead pencil, but with an ivory thing with a point of real lead. And it won’t write on any other paper except the kind that is in the book, and this is often very annoying when you are in a hurry. Then was seen the strange spectacle of a little ivory stick, with a leaden point, standing up at an odd, impossible-looking slant, and moving along all by itself as ordinary pencils do when you are writing with them.

“May we look over?” asked Kathleen.

There was no answer. The pencil went on writing.

“Mayn’t we look over?” Kathleen said again.

“Of course you may!” said the voice near the paper. “I nodded, didn’t I? Oh, I forgot, my nodding’s invisible too.”

The pencil was forming round, clear letters on the page torn out of the note-book. This is what it wrote:—“Dear Aunt,—“I am afraid you will not see me again for some time. A lady in a motor-car has adopted me, and we are going straight to the coast and then in a ship. It is useless to try to follow me. Farewell, and may you be happy. I hope you enjoyed the fair.”Mabel.”

“But that’s all lies,” said Jimmy bluntly.

“No, it isn’t; it’s fancy,” said Mabel. “If I said I’ve become invisible, she’d think that was a lie, anyhow.”

“Oh, come along,” said Jimmy; “you can quarrel just as well walking.”

Gerald folded up the note as a lady in India had taught him to do years before, and Mabel led them by another and very much nearer way out of the park. And the walk home was a great deal shorter, too, than the walk out had been.

The sky had clouded over while they were in the Temple of Flora, and the first spots of rain fell as they got back to the house, very late indeed for tea.

Mademoiselle was looking out of the window, and came herself to open the door.

“But it is that you are in lateness, in lateness!” she cried. “You have had a misfortune—no? All goes well?”

“We are very sorry indeed,” said Gerald. “It took us longer to get home than we expected. I do hope you haven’t been anxious. I have been thinking about you most of the way home.”

The bread and butter waving about in the air

“Go, then,” said the French lady, smiling; “you shall have them in the same time—the tea and the supper.”

Which they did.

“How could you say you were thinking about her all the time?” said a voice just by Gerald’s ear, when Mademoiselle had left them alone with the bread and butter and milk and baked apples. “It was just as much a lie as me being adopted by a motor lady.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Gerald, through bread and butter. “I was thinking about whether she’d be in a wax or not. So there!”

There were only three plates, but Jimmy let Mabel have his, and shared with Kathleen. It was rather horrid to see the bread and butter waving about in the air, and bite after bite disappearing from it apparently by no human agency; and the spoon rising with apple in it and returning to the plate empty. Even the tip of the spoon disappeared as long as it was in Mabel’s unseen mouth; so that at times it looked as though its bowl had been broken off.

Everyone was very hungry, and more bread and butter had to be fetched. Cook grumbled when the plate was filled for the third time.

“I tell you what,” said Jimmy; “I did want my tea.”

“I tell you what,” said Gerald; “it’ll be jolly difficult to give Mabel any breakfast. Mademoiselle will be here then. She’d have a fit if she saw bits of forks with bacon on them vanishing, and then the forks coming back out of vanishment, and the bacon lost for ever.”

“We shall have to buy things to eat and feed our poor captive in secret,” said Kathleen.

“Our money won’t last long,” said Jimmy, in gloom. “Have you got any money?”

He turned to where a mug of milk was suspended in the air without visible means of support.

“I’ve not got much money,” was the reply from near the milk, “but I’ve got heaps of ideas.”

“We must talk about everything in the morning,” said Kathleen. “We must just say good night to Mademoiselle, and then you shall sleep in my bed, Mabel. I’ll lend you one of my nightgowns.”

“I’ll get my own tomorrow,” said Mabel cheerfully.

“You’ll go back to get things?”

“Why not? Nobody can see me. I think I begin to see all sorts of amusing things coming along. It’s not half bad being invisible.”

It was extremely odd, Kathleen thought, to see the Princess’s clothes coming out of nothing. First the gauzy veil appeared hanging in the air. Then the sparkling coronet suddenly showed on the top of the chest of drawers. Then a sleeve of the pinky gown showed, then another, and then the whole gown lay on the floor in a glistening ring as the unseen legs of Mabel stepped out of it. For each article of clothing became visible as Mabel took it off. The nightgown, lifted from the bed, disappeared a bit at a time.

“Get into bed,” said Kathleen, rather nervously.

The bed creaked and a hollow appeared in the pillow. Kathleen put out the gas and got into bed; all this magic had been rather upsetting, and she was just the least bit frightened, but in the dark she found it was not so bad. Mabel’s arms went round her neck the moment she got into bed, and the two little girls kissed in the kind darkness, where the visible and the invisible could meet on equal terms.

“Good night,” said Mabel. “You’re a darling, Cathy; you’ve been most awfully good to me, and I shan’t forget it. I didn’t like to say so before the boys, because I know boys think you’re a muff^cv if you’re grateful. But I am. Good night.”

Kathleen lay awake for some time. She was just getting sleepy when she remembered that the maid who would call them in the morning would see those wonderful Princess clothes.

“I’ll have to get up and hide them,” she said. “What a bother!”

And as she lay thinking what a bother it was she happened to fall asleep, and when she woke again it was bright morning, and Eliza was standing in front of the chair where Mabel’s clothes lay, gazing at the pink Princess-frock that lay on the top of her heap and saying, “Law!”^cw

“Oh, don’t touch, please!” Kathleen leaped out of bed as Eliza was reaching out her hand.

“Where on earth did you get hold of that?”

“We’re going to use it for acting,” said Kathleen, on the desperate inspiration of the moment. “It’s lent me for that.”

“You might show me, miss,” suggested Eliza.

“Oh, please not!” said Kathleen, standing in front of the chair in her nightgown. “You shall see us act when we are dressed up. There! And you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Not if you’re a good little girl,” said Eliza. “But you be sure to let me see when you do dress up. But where—”

Here a bell rang and Eliza had to go, for it was the postman, and she particularly wanted to see him.

“And now,” said Kathleen, pulling on her first stocking, “we shall have to do the acting. Everything seems very difficult.”

“Acting isn’t,” said Mabel; and an unsupported stocking waved in the air and quickly vanished. “I shall love it.”

“You forget,” said Kathleen gently, “invisible actresses can’t take part in plays unless they’re magic ones.”

“Oh,” cried a voice from under a petticoat that hung in the air, “I’ve got such an idea!”

“Tell it us after breakfast,” said Kathleen, as the water in the basin began to splash about and to drip from nowhere back into itself. “And oh! I do wish you hadn’t written such whoppers to your aunt. I’m sure we oughtn’t to tell lies for anything.”

“What’s the use of telling the truth if nobody believes you?” came from among the splashes.

“I don’t know,” said Kathleen, “but I’m sure we ought to tell the truth.”

“You can, if you like,” said a voice from the folds of a towel that waved lonely in front of the wash-hand stand.

“All right. We will, then, first thing after brek^cx—your brek, I mean. You’ll have to wait up here till we can collar something and bring it up to you. Mind you dodge Eliza when she comes to make the bed.”

The invisible Mabel found this a fairly amusing game; she further enlivened it by twitching out the corners of tucked-up sheets and blankets when Eliza wasn’t looking.

“Drat the clothes!” said Eliza; “anyone ’ud think the things was bewitched.”

She looked about for the wonderful Princess clothes she had glimpsed earlier in the morning. But Kathleen had hidden them in a perfectly safe place—under the mattress, which she knew Eliza never turned.

Eliza hastily brushed up from the floor those bits of fluff which come from goodness knows where in the best regulated houses. Mabel, very hungry and exasperated at the long absence of the others at their breakfast, could not forbear to whisper suddenly in Eliza’s ear:

“Always sweep under the mats.”

The maid started and turned pale. “I must be going silly,” she murmured; “though it’s just what mother always used to say. Hope I ain’t going dotty, like Aunt Emily. Wonderful what you can fancy, ain’t it?” .

She took up the hearth-rug all the same, swept under it, and under the fender. So thorough was she, and so pale, that Kathleen, entering with a chunk of bread raided by Gerald from the pantry window, exclaimed:

“Not done yet. I say, Eliza, you do look ill! What’s the matter?”

“I thought I’d give the room a good turn-out,” said Eliza, still very pale.

“Nothing’s happened to upset you?” Kathleen asked. She had her own private fears.

“Nothing—only my fancy, miss,” said Eliza. “I always was fanciful from a child—dreaming of the pearly gates and them little angels with nothing on only their heads and wings—so cheap to dress, I always think, compared with children.”

When she was got rid of, Mabel ate the bread and drank water from the tooth-mug.

“I’m afraid it tastes of cherry tooth-paste rather,” said Kathleen apologetically.

“It doesn’t matter,” a voice replied from the tilted mug; “it’s more interesting than water. I should think red wine in ballads was rather like this.”

“We’ve got leave for the day again,” said Kathleen, when the last bit of bread had vanished, “and Gerald feels like I do about lies. So we’re going to tell your aunt where you really are.”

“She won’t believe you.”

“That doesn’t matter, if we speak the truth,” said Kathleen primly.

“I expect you’ll be sorry for it,” said Mabel; “but come on—and, I say, do be careful not to shut me in the door as you go out. You nearly did just now.”

In the blazing sunlight that flooded the High Street four shadows to three children seemed dangerously noticeable. A butcher’s boy looked far too earnestly at the extra shadow, and his big, liver-coloured lurcher snuffed at the legs of that shadow’s mistress and whined uncomfortably.

“Get behind. me,” said Kathleen; “then our two shadows will look like one.”

But Mabel’s shadow, very visible, fell on Kathleen’s back, and the ostler^cy of the Davenant Arms looked up to see what big bird had cast that big shadow.

A woman driving a cart with chickens and ducks in it called out:

“Halloa, missy, ain’t you blacked yer back, neither!”

“Halloa, missy, ain’t you blacked yer back, neither! What you been leaning up against?”

Everyone was glad when they got out of the town.

Speaking the truth to Mabel’s aunt did not turn out at all as anyone—even Mabel—expected. The aunt was discovered reading a pink novelette at the window of the housekeeper’s room, which, framed in clematis and green creepers, looked out on a nice little courtyard to which Mabel led the party.

“Excuse me,” said Gerald, “but I believe you’ve lost your niece?”

“Not lost, my boy,” said the aunt, who was spare and tall, with a drab fringe and a very genteel voice.

“We could tell you something about her,” said Gerald.

“Now,” replied the aunt, in a warning voice, “no complaints, please. My niece has gone, and I am sure no one thinks less than I do of her little pranks. If she’s played any tricks on you it’s only her light-hearted way. Go away, children, I’m busy.”

“Did you get her note?” asked Kathleen.

The aunt showed rather more interest than before, but she still kept her finger in the novelette.

“Oh,” she said, “so you witnessed her departure? Did she seem glad to go?”

“Quite,” said Gerald truthfully.

“Then I can only be glad that she is provided for,” said the aunt. “I dare say you were surprised. These romantic adventures do occur in our family. Lord Yalding selected me out of eleven applicants for the post of housekeeper here. I’ve not the slightest doubt the child was changed at birth and her rich relatives have claimed her.”

“But aren’t you going to do anything—tell the police, or—”

“Shish!” said Mabel.

“I won’t shish,” said Jimmy. “Your Mabel’s invisible—that’s all it is. She’s just beside me now.”

“I detest untruthfulness,” said the aunt severely, “in all its forms. Will you kindly take that little boy away? I am quite satisfied about Mabel.”

“Well,” said Gerald, “you are an aunt and no mistake! But what will Mabel’s father and mother say?”

“Mabel’s father and mother are dead,” said the aunt calmly, and a little sob sounded close to Gerald’s ear.

“All right,” he said, “we’ll be off But don’t you go saying we didn’t tell you the truth, that’s all.”

“You have told me nothing,” said the aunt, “none of you, except that little boy, who has told me a silly falsehood.”

“We meant well,” said Gerald gently. “You don’t mind our having come through the grounds, do you? We’re very careful not to touch anything.”

“No visitors are allowed,” said the aunt, glancing down at her novel rather impatiently.

“Ah! but you wouldn’t count us visitors,” said Gerald in his best manner. “We’re friends of Mabel’s. Our father’s Colonel of the—th.”

“Indeed!” said the aunt.

“And our aunt’s Lady Sandling, so you can be sure we wouldn’t hurt anything on the estate.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t hurt a fly,” said the aunt absently. “Good-bye. Be good children.”

And on this they got away quickly.

“Why,” said Gerald, when they were outside the little court, “your aunt’s as mad as a hatter. Fancy not caring what becomes of you, and fancy believing that rot about the motor lady!”

“I knew she’d believe it when I wrote it,” said Mabel modestly. “She’s not mad, only she’s always reading novelettes. I read the books in the big library. Oh, it’s such a jolly room—such a queer smell, like boots, and old leather books sort of powdery at the edges. I’ll take you there some day. Now your consciences are all right about my aunt, I’ll tell you my great idea. Let’s get down to the Temple of Flora. I’m glad you got aunt’s permission for the grounds. It would be so awkward for you to have to be always dodging behind bushes when one of the gardeners came along.”

“Yes,” said Gerald modestly, “I thought of that.”

The day was as bright as yesterday had been, and from the white marble temple the Italian-looking landscape looked more than ever like a steel engraving coloured by hand, or an oleographic^cz imitation of one of Turner’s pictures.

When the three children were comfortably settled on the steps that led up to the white statue, the voice of the fourth child said sadly: “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m rather hungry. And you can’t be always taking things for me through your larder window. If you like, I’ll go back and live in the castle. It’s supposed to be haunted. I suppose I could haunt it as well as anyone else. I am a sort of ghost now, you know. I will if you like.”

“Oh no,” said Kathleen kindly; “you must stay with us.”

“But about food. I’m not ungrateful, really I’m not, but breakfast is breakfast, and bread’s only bread.”

“If you could get the ring off, you could go back.”

“Yes,” said Mabel’s voice, “but you see, I can’t. I tried again last night in bed, and again this morning. And it’s like stealing, taking things out of your larder—even if it’s only bread.”

“Yes, it is,” said Gerald, who had carried out this bold enterprise.

“Well, now, what we must do is to earn some money.”

Jimmy remarked that this was all very well. But Gerald and Kathleen listened attentively.

“What I mean to say,” the voice went on, “I’m really sure it’s all for the best, me being invisible. We shall have adventures—you see if we don’t.”

“ ‘Adventures,’ said the bold buccaneer, ‘are not always profitable.’ ” It was Gerald who murmured this.

“This one will be, anyhow, you see. Only you mustn’t all go. Look here, if Jerry could make himself look common—”

“That ought to be easy,” said Jimmy. And Kathleen told him not to be so jolly disagreeable.

“I’m not,” said Jimmy, “only—”

“Only he has an inside feeling that this Mabel of yours is going to get us into trouble,” put in Gerald. “Like La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and he does not want to be found in future ages alone and palely loitering in the middle of sedge and things.”⁴

“I won’t get you into trouble, indeed I won’t,” said the voice. “Why, we’re a band of brothers for life, after the way you stood by me yesterday. What I mean is—Gerald can go to the fair and do conjuring.”

“He doesn’t know any,” said Kathleen.

“I should do it really,” said Mabel, “but Jerry could look like doing it. Move things without touching them and all that. But it wouldn’t do for all three of you to go. The more there are of children, the younger they look, I think, and the more people wonder what they’re doing all alone by themselves.”

“The accomplished conjurer deemed these the words of wisdom,” said Gerald; and answered the dismal “Well, but what about us?” of his brother and sister by suggesting that they should mingle unsuspected with the crowd. “But don’t let on that you know me,” he said; “and try to look as if you belonged to some of the grown-ups at the fair. If you don’t, as likely as not you’ll have the kind policemen taking the little lost children by the hand and leading them home to their stricken relations—French governess, I mean.”

“Let’s go now,” said the voice that they never could get quite used to hearing, coming out of different parts of the air as Mabel moved from one place to another. So they went.

The fair was held on a waste bit of land, about half a mile from the castle gates. When they got near enough to hear the steam-organ of the merry-go-round, Gerald suggested that as he had ninepence he should go ahead and get something to eat, the amount spent to be paid back out of any money they might make by conjuring. The others waited in the shadows of a deep-banked lane, and he came back, quite soon, though long after they had begun to say what a long time he had been gone. He brought some Barcelona nuts, red-streaked apples, small sweet yellow pears, pale pasty gingerbread, a whole quarter of a pound of peppermint bullseyes, and two bottles of ginger-beer.

“It’s what they call an investment,” he said, when Kathleen said something about extravagance. “We shall all need special nourishing to keep our strength up, especially the bold conjurer.”

They ate and drank. It was a very beautiful meal, and the far-off music of the steam-organ added the last touch of festivity to the scene. The boys were never tired of seeing Mabel eat, or rather of seeing the strange, magic-looking vanishment of food which was all that showed of Mabel’s eating. They were entranced by the spectacle, and pressed on her more than her just share of the feast, just for the pleasure of seeing it disappear.

“My aunt!” said Gerald, again and again; “that ought to knock em!”

It did.

Jimmy and Kathleen had the start of the others, and when they got to the fair they mingled with the crowd, and were as unsuspected as possible.

They stood near a large lady who was watching the coconut shies, and presently saw a strange figure with its hands in its pockets strolling across the trampled yellowy grass among the bits of drifting paper and the sticks and straws that always litter the ground of an English fair. It was Gerald, but at first they hardly knew him. He had taken off his tie, and round his head, arranged like a turban, was the crimson school-scarf that had supported his white flannels. The tie, one supposed, had taken on the duties of the handkerchief And his face and hands were a bright black, like very nicely polished stoves!

Everyone turned to look at him.

“He’s just like a conjurer!” whispered Jimmy. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever come off, do you?”

They followed him at a distance, and when he went close to the door of a small tent, against whose door-post a long-faced melancholy woman was lounging, they stopped and tried to look as though they belonged to a farmer who strove to send up a number by banging with a big mallet on a wooden block.

Gerald went up to the woman.

“Taken much?” he asked, and was told, but not harshly, to go away with his impudence.

“I’m in business myself,” said Gerald, “I’m a conjurer, from India.”

“Not you!” said the woman; “you ain’t no conjurer. Why, the backs of yer ears is all white.”

“Are they?” said Gerald. “How clever of you to see that!” He rubbed them with his hands. “That better?”

“That’s all right. What’s your little game?”

“Conjuring, really and truly,” said Gerald. “There’s smaller boys than me put on to it in India. Look here, I owe you one for telling me about my ears. If you like to run the show for me I’ll go shares. Let me have your tent to perform in, and you do the patter at the door.”

“Lor’ love you! I can’t do no patter. And you’re getting at me. Let’s see you do a bit of conjuring, since you’re so clever an’ all.”

“Right you are,” said Gerald firmly. “You see this apple? Well, I’ll make it move slowly through the air, and then when I say ‘Go!’ it’ll vanish.”

“Yes—into your mouth! Get away with your nonsense.”

“You’re too clever to be so unbelieving,” said Gerald. “Look here! ”

He held out one of the little apples, and the woman saw it move slowly and unsupported along the air.

“Now—go!” cried Gerald, to the apple, and it went. “How’s that?” he asked, in tones of triumph.

The woman was glowing with excitement, and her eyes shone. “The best I ever see!” she whispered. “I’m on, mate, if you know any more tricks like that.”

“You’re getting at me”

“Heaps,” said Gerald confidently; “hold out your hand.” The woman held it out; and from nowhere, as it seemed, the apple appeared and was laid on her hand. The apple was rather damp.

She looked at it a moment, and then whispered: “Come on! there’s to be no one in it but just us two. But not in the tent. You take a pitch here, ’longside the tent. It’s worth twice the money in the open air.”

“But people won’t pay if they can see it all for nothing.”

“Not for the first turn, but they will after—you see. And you’ll have to do the patter.”

“Will you lend me your shawl?” Gerald asked. She unpinned it—it was a red and black plaid—and he spread it on the ground as he had seen Indian conjurers do, and seated himself cross-legged behind it.

“I mustn’t have anyone behind me, that’s all,” he said; and the woman hastily screened off a little enclosure for him by hanging old sacks to two of the guy-ropes of the tent. “Now I’m ready,” he said. The woman got a drum from the inside of the tent and beat it. Quite soon a little crowd had collected.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Gerald, “I come from India, and I can do a conjuring entertainment the like of which you’ve never seen. When I see two shillings on the shawl I’ll begin.”

“I dare say you will!” said a bystander; and there were several short, disagreeable laughs.

“Of course,” said Gerald, “if you can’t afford two shillings between you”—there were about thirty people in the crowd by now—“I say no more.”

Two or three pennies fell on the shawl, then a few more, then the fall of copper ceased.

“Ninepence,” said Gerald. “Well, I’ve got a generous nature. You’ll get such a ninepennyworth as you’ve never had before. I don’t wish to deceive you—I have an accomplice, but my accomplice is invisible.”

The crowd snorted.

“By the aid of that accomplice,” Gerald went on, “I will read any letter that any of you may have in your pocket. If one of you will just step over the rope and stand beside me, my invisible accomplice will read that letter over his shoulder.”

A man stepped forward, a ruddy-faced, horsy-looking person. He pulled a letter from his pocket and stood plain in the sight of all, in a place where everyone saw that no one could see over his shoulder.

“Now!” said Gerald. There was a moment’s pause. Then from quite the other side of the enclosure came a faint, faraway, sing-song voice. It said:

“ ‘SIR,—Yours of the fifteenth duly to hand. With regard to the mortgage on your land, we regret our inability—’ ”

“Stow it!” cried the man, turning threateningly on Gerald.

“Stow it!” cried the man

He stepped out of the enclosure explaining that there was nothing of that sort in his letter; but nobody believed him, and a buzz of interested chatter began in the crowd, ceasing abruptly when Gerald began to speak.

“Now,” said he, laying the nine pennies down on the shawl, “you keep your eyes on those pennies, and one by one you’ll see them disappear.”

And of course they did. Then one by one they were laid down again by the invisible hand of Mabel. The crowd clapped loudly. “Bravo!” “That’s something like!” “Show us another!” cried the people in the front rank. And those behind pushed forward.

“Now,” said Gerald, “you’ve seen what I can do, but I don’t do any more till I see five shillings on this carpet.”

And in two minutes seven-and-threepence lay there and Gerald did a little more conjuring.

When the people in front didn’t want to give any more money, Gerald asked them to stand back and let the others have a look in. I wish I had time to tell you of all the tricks he did—the grass round his enclosure was absolutely trampled off by the feet of the people who thronged to look at him. There is really hardly any limit to the wonders you can do if you have an invisible accomplice. All sorts of things were made to move about, apparently by themselves, and even to vanish—into the folds of Mabel’s clothing. The woman stood by, looking more and more pleasant as she saw the money come tumbling in, and beating her shabby drum every time Gerald stopped conjuring.

The news of the conjurer had spread all over the fair. The crowd was frantic with admiration. The man who ran the coconut shies begged Gerald to throw in his lot with him; the owner of the rifle gallery offered him free board and lodging and go shares; and a brisk, broad lady, in stiff black silk and a violet bonnet, tried to engage him for the forthcoming Bazaar for Reformed Bandsmen.

And all this time the others mingled with the crowd—quite unobserved, for who could have eyes for anyone but Gerald? It was getting quite late, long past tea-time, and Gerald, who was getting very tired indeed, and was quite satisfied with his share of the money, was racking his brains for a way to get out of it.

“How are we to hook it?” he murmured, as Mabel made his cap disappear from his head by the simple process of taking it off and putting it in her pocket. “They’ll never let us get away. I didn’t think of that before.”

“Let me think!” whispered Mabel; and next moment she said, close to his ear: “Divide the money, and give her something for the shawl. Put the money on it and say ...” She told him what to say.

Gerald’s pitch was in the shade of the tent; otherwise, of course, everyone would have seen the shadow of the invisible Mabel as she moved about making things vanish.

Gerald told the woman to divide the money, which she did honestly enough.

“Now,” he said, while the impatient crowd pressed closer and closer, “I’ll give you five bob for your shawl.”

“Seven-and-six,” said the woman mechanically.

“Righto!” said Gerald, putting his heavy share of the money in his trouser pocket.

“This shawl will now disappear,” he said, picking it up. He handed it to Mabel, who put it on; and, of course, it disappeared. A roar of applause went up from the audience.

“Now,” he said, “I come to the last trick of all. I shall take three steps backwards and vanish.” He took three steps backwards, Mabel wrapped the invisible shawl round him, and—he did not vanish. The shawl, being invisible, did not conceal him in the least.

“Yah!” cried a boy’s voice in the crowd. “Look at ‘im! ’E knows ’e can’t do it.”

“I wish I could put you in my pocket,” said Mabel. The crowd was crowding closer. At any moment they might touch Mabel, and then anything might happen—simply anything. Gerald took hold of his hair with both hands, as his way was when he was anxious or discouraged. Mabel, in invisibility, wrung her hands, as people are said to do in books; that is, she clasped them and squeezed very tight.

“Oh!” she whispered suddenly, “it’s loose. I can get it off.”

“Not—”

“Yes—the ring.”

“Come on, young master. Give us summat for our money,” a farm labourer shouted.

“I will,” said Gerald. “This time I really will vanish. Slip round into the tent,” he whispered to Mabel. “Push the ring under the canvas. Then slip out at the back and join the others. When I see you with them I’ll disappear. Go slow, and I’ll catch you up.”

“It’s me,” said a pale and obvious Mabel in the ear of Kathleen. “He’s got the ring; come on, before the crowd begins to scatter.”

As they went out of the gate they heard a roar of surprise and annoyance rise from the crowd, and knew that this time Gerald really had disappeared.

They had gone a mile before they heard footsteps on the road, and looked back. No one was to be seen.

Next moment Gerald’s voice spoke out of clear, empty-looking space.

“Halloa!” it said gloomily.

“How horrid!” cried Mabel; “you did make me jump! Take the ring off; it makes me feel quite creepy, you being nothing but a voice.”

“So did you us,” said Jimmy.

“Don’t take it off yet,” said Kathleen, who was really rather thoughtful for her age, “because you’re still blackleaded,^da I suppose, and you might be recognized, and eloped with by gipsies, so that you should go on doing conjuring for ever and ever.”

“I should take it off,” said Jimmy; “it’s no use going about invisible, and people seeing us with Mabel and saying we’ve eloped with her.”

“Yes,” said Mabel impatiently, “that would be simply silly. And, besides, I want my ring.”

“It’s not yours any more than ours, anyhow,” said Jimmy.

“Yes, it is,” said Mabel.

“Oh, stow it!” said the weary voice of Gerald beside her. “What’s the use of jawing?”

“I want the ring,” said Mabel, rather mulishly.

“Want”—the words came out of the still evening air—“want must be your master. You can’t have the ring. I can’t get it off!”

CHAPTER IV

The difficulty was not only that Gerald had got the ring on and couldn’t get it off, and was therefore invisible, but that Mabel, who had been invisible and therefore possible to be smuggled into the house, was now plain to be seen and impossible for smuggling purposes.

The children would have not only to account for the apparent absence of one of themselves, but for the obvious presence of a perfect stranger.

“I can’t go back to aunt. I can’t and I won’t,” said Mabel firmly, “not if I was visible twenty times over.”

“She’d smell a rat if you did,” Gerald owned—“about the motor-car, I mean, and the adopting lady. And what we’re to say to Mademoiselle about you—!” He tugged at the ring.

“Suppose you told the truth,” said Mabel meaningly.

“She wouldn’t believe it,” said Cathy; “or, if she did, she’d go stark, staring, raving mad.”

“No,” said Gerald’s voice, “we daren’t tell her. But she’s really rather decent. Let’s ask her to let you stay the night because it’s too late for you to get home.”

“That’s all right,” said Jimmy, “but what about you?”

“I shall go to bed,” said Gerald, “with a bad headache. Oh, that’s not a lie! I’ve got one right enough. It’s the sun, I think. I know blacklead attracts the concentration of the sun.”

“More likely the pears and the gingerbread,” said Jimmy unkindly. “Well, let’s get along. I wish it was me was invisible. I’d do something different from going to bed with a silly headache, I know that.”

“What would you do?” asked the voice of Gerald just behind him.

“Do keep in one place, you silly cuckoo!” said Jimmy. “You make me feel all jumpy.” He had indeed jumped rather violently. “Here, walk between Cathy and me.”

“What would you do?” repeated Gerald, from that apparently unoccupied position.

“I’d be a burglar,” said Jimmy

Cathy and Mabel in one breath reminded him how wrong burgling was, and Jimmy replied:

“Well, then—a detective.”

“There’s got to be something to detect before you can begin detectiving,” said Mabel.

“Detectives don’t always detect things,” said Jimmy, very truly. “If I couldn’t be any other kind I’d be a baffled detective. You could be one all right, and have no end of larks just the same. Why don’t you do it?”

“It’s exactly what I am going to do,” said Gerald. “We’ll go round by the police-station and see what they’ve got in the way of crimes.”

They did, and read the notices on the board outside. Two dogs had been lost, a purse, and a portfolio of papers “of no value to any but the owner.” Also Houghton Grange had been broken into and a quantity of silver plate stolen. “Twenty pounds reward offered for any information that may lead to the recovery of the missing property.”

“That burglary’s my lay,”^db said Gerald; “I’ll detect that. Here comes Johnson,” he added; “he’s going off duty. Ask him about it. The fell detective, being invisible, was unable to pump the constable, but the young brother of our hero made the inquiries in quite a creditable manner. Be creditable, Jimmy.”

Jimmy hailed the constable.

“Halloa, Johnson!” he said.

And Johnson replied: “Halloa, young shaver!”^dc

“Shaver yourself!” said Jimmy, but without malice.

“What are you doing this time of night?” the constable asked jocosely. “All the dicky birds is gone to their little nesteses.”

“We’ve been to the fair,” said Kathleen. “There was a conjurer there. I wish you could have seen him.”

“Heard about him,” said Johnson; “all fake, you know. The quickness of the ’and deceives the hi.”

“What’s that?” the policeman asked quickly

Such is fame. Gerald, standing in the shadow, jingled the loose money in his pocket to console himself

“What’s that?” the policeman asked quickly.

“Our money jingling,” said Jimmy, with perfect truth.

“It’s well to be some people,” Johnson remarked; “wish I’d got my pockets full to jingle with.”

“Well, why haven’t you?” asked Mabel. “Why don’t you get that twenty pounds reward?”

“I’ll tell you why I don’t. Because in this ’ere realm of liberty, and Britannia ruling the waves, you ain’t allowed to arrest a chap on suspicion, even if you know puffickly well who done the job.”

“What a shame!” said Jimmy warmly. “And who do you think did it?”

“I don’t think—I know” Johnson’s voice was ponderous as his boots. “It’s a man what’s known to the police on account of a heap o’ crimes he’s done, but we never can’t bring it ‘ome to ’im, nor yet get sufficient evidence to convict.”

“Well,” said Jimmy, “when I’ve left school I’ll come to you and be apprenticed, and be a detective. Just now I think we’d better get home and detect our supper. Good night!”

They watched the policeman’s broad form disappear through the swing door of the police-station; and as it settled itself into quiet again the voice of Gerald was heard complaining bitterly.

“You’ve no more brains than a halfpenny bun,” he said; “no details about how and when the silver was taken.”

“But he told us he knew,” Jimmy urged.

“Yes, that’s all you’ve got out of him. A silly policeman’s silly idea. Go home and detect your precious supper! It’s all you’re fit for.”

“What’ll you do about supper?” Mabel asked.

“Buns!” said Gerald, “halfpenny buns. They’ll make me think of my dear little brother and sister. Perhaps you’ve got enough sense to buy buns? I can’t go into a shop in this state.”

“Don’t you be so disagreeable,” said Mabel with spirit. “We did our best. If I were Cathy you should whistle for your nasty buns.”

“If you were Cathy the gallant young detective would have left home long ago. Better the cabin of a tramp steamer than the best family mansion that’s got a brawling sister in it,” said Gerald. “You’re a bit of an outsider at present, my gentle maiden. Jimmy and Cathy know well enough when their bold leader is chaffing and when he isn’t.”

“Not when we can’t see your face we don’t,” said Cathy, in tones of relief. “I really thought you were in a flaring wax, and so did Jimmy, didn’t you?”

“Oh, rot!” said Gerald. “Come on! This way to the bun shop.”

They went. And it was while Cathy and Jimmy were in the shop and the others were gazing through the glass at the jam tarts and Swiss rolls and Victoria sandwiches and Bath buns under the spread yellow muslin in the window, that Gerald discoursed in Mabel’s ear of the plans and hopes of one entering on a detective career.

“I shall keep my eyes open tonight, I can tell you,” he began. “I shall keep my eyes skinned, and no jolly error. The invisible detective may not only find out about the purse and the silver, but detect some crime that isn’t even done yet. And I shall hang about until I see some suspicious-looking characters leave the town, and follow them furtively and catch them red-handed, with their hands full of priceless jewels, and hand them over.”

“Oh!” cried Mabel, so sharply and suddenly that Gerald was roused from his dream to express sympathy.

“Pain?” he said quite kindly. “It’s the apples—they were rather hard.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” said Mabel very earnestly. “Oh, how awful! I never thought of that before.”

“Never thought of what?” Gerald asked impatiently.

“The window.”

“What window?”

“The panelled-room window. At home, you know—at the castle. That settles it—I must go home. We left it open and the shutters as well, and all the jewels and things there. Auntie’ll never go in; she never does. That settles it; I must go home—now—this minute.”

Here the others issued from the shop, bun-bearing, and the situation was hastily explained to them.

“So you see I must go,” Mabel ended.

And Kathleen agreed that she must.

But Jimmy said he didn’t see what good it would do. “Because the key’s inside the door, anyhow.”

“She will be cross,” said Mabel sadly. “She’ll have to get the gardeners to get a ladder and—”

“Hooray!” said Gerald. “Here’s me! Nobler and more secret than gardeners or ladders was the invisible Jerry. I’ll climb in at the window—it’s all ivy, I know I could—and shut the window and the shutters all sereno,^dd put the key back on the nail, and slip out unperceived the back way, threading my way through the maze of unconscious retainers. There’ll be plenty of time. I don’t suppose burglars begin their fell work until the night is far advanced.”

“I must go home—now—this minute”

“Won’t you be afraid?” Mabel asked. “Will it be safe—suppose you were caught?”

“As houses.^de I can’t be,” Gerald answered, and wondered that the question came from Mabel and not from Kathleen, who was usually inclined to fuss a little annoyingly about the danger and folly of adventures.

But all Kathleen said was, “Well, good-bye; we’ll come and see you tomorrow, Mabel. The floral temple at half-past ten. I hope you won’t get into an awful row about the motor-car lady.”

“Let’s detect our supper now,” said Jimmy.

“All right,” said Gerald a little bitterly. It is hard to enter on an adventure like this and to find the sympathetic interest of years suddenly cut off at the meter, as it were. Gerald felt that he ought, at a time like this, to have been the centre of interest. And he wasn’t. They could actually talk about supper. Well, let them. He didn’t care! He spoke with sharp sternness: “Leave the pantry window undone for me to get in by when I’ve done my detecting. Come on, Mabel.” He caught her hand. “Bags I the buns, though,” he added, by a happy afterthought, and snatching the bag, pressed it on Mabel, and the sound of four boots echoed on the pavement of the High Street as the outlines of the running Mabel grew small with distance.

Mademoiselle was in the drawing-room. She was sitting by the window in the waning light reading letters.

“Ah, vous voici!”^df she said unintelligibly. “You are again late; and my little Gerald, where is he?”

This was an awful moment. Jimmy’s detective scheme had not included any answer to this inevitable question. The silence was unbroken till Jimmy spoke.

“He said he was going to bed because he had a headache.” And this, of course, was true.

“This poor Gerald!” said Mademoiselle. “Is it that I should mount him some supper?”

“He never eats anything when he’s got one of his headaches,” Kathleen said. And this also was the truth.

Jimmy and Kathleen went to bed, wholly untroubled by anxiety about their brother, and Mademoiselle pulled out the bundle of letters and read them amid the ruins of the simple supper.

“It is ripping being out late like this,” said Gerald through the soft summer dusk.

“Yes,” said Mabel, a solitary-looking figure plodding along the high-road. “I do hope auntie won’t be very furious.”

“Have another bun,” suggested Gerald kindly, and a sociable munching followed.

It was the aunt herself who opened to a very pale and trembling Mabel the door which is appointed for the entrances and exits of the domestic staff at Yalding Towers. She looked over Mabel’s head first, as if she expected to see someone taller. Then a very small voice said:

“Aunt!”

The aunt started back, then made a step towards Mabel.

“You naughty, naughty girl!” she cried angrily; “how could you give me such a fright? I’ve a good mind to keep you in bed for a week for this, miss. Oh, Mabel, thank Heaven you’re safe!” And with that the aunt’s arms went round Mabel and Mabel’s round the aunt in such a hug as they had never met in before.

“But you didn’t seem to care a bit this morning,” said Mabel, when she had realized that her aunt really had been anxious, really was glad to have her safe home again.

“How do you know?”

“I was there listening. Don’t be angry, auntie.”

“I feel as if I could never be angry with you again, now I’ve got you safe,” said the aunt surprisingly.

“But how was it?” Mabel asked.

“My dear,” said the aunt impressively, “I’ve been in a sort of trance. I think I must be going to be ill. I’ve always been fond of you, but I didn’t want to spoil you. But yesterday, about half-past three, I was talking about you to Mr. Lewson, at the fair, and quite suddenly I felt as if you didn’t matter at all. And I felt the same when I got your letter and when those children came. And today in the middle of tea I suddenly woke up and realized that you were gone. It was awful. I think I must be going to be ill. Oh, Mabel, why did you do it?”

“It was—a joke,” said Mabel feebly. And then the two went in and the door was shut.

“That’s most uncommon odd,” said Gerald, outside; “looks like more magic to me. I don’t feel as if we’d got to the bottom of this yet, by any manner of means. There’s more about this castle than meets the eye.”

There certainly was. For this castle happened to be—but it would not be fair to Gerald to tell you more about it than he knew on that night when he went alone and invisible through the shadowy great grounds of it to look for the open window of the panelled room. He knew that night no more than I have told you; but as he went along the dewy lawns and through the groups of shrubs and trees, where pools lay like giant looking-glasses reflecting the quiet stars, and the white limbs of statues gleamed against a background of shadow, he began to feel—well, not excited, not surprised, not anxious, but—different.

The incident of the invisible Princess had surprised, the incident of the conjuring had excited, and the sudden decision to be a detective had brought its own anxieties; but all these happenings, though wonderful and unusual, had seemed to be, after all, inside the circle of possible things—wonderful as the chemical experiments are where two liquids poured together make fire, surprising as legerdemain, ^dg thrilling as a juggler’s display, but nothing more. Only now a new feeling came to him as he walked through those gardens; by day those gardens were like dreams, at night they were like visions. He could not see his feet as he walked, but he saw the movement of the dewy grass-blades that his feet displaced. And he had that extraordinary feeling so difficult to describe, and yet so real and so unforgettable—the feeling that he was in another world, that had covered up and hidden the old world as a carpet covers a floor. The floor was there all right, underneath, but what he walked on was the carpet that covered it—and that carpet was drenched in magic, as the turf was drenched in dew.

The feeling was very wonderful; perhaps you will feel it some day. There are still some places in the world where it can be felt, but they grow fewer every year.

The enchantment of the garden held him.

“I’ll not go in yet,” he told himself; “it’s too early. And perhaps I shall never be here at night again. I suppose it is the night that makes everything look so different.”

Something white moved under a weeping willow; white hands parted the long, rustling leaves. A white figure came out, a creature with horns and goat’s legs and the head and arms of a boy. And Gerald was not afraid. That was the most wonderful thing of all, though he would never have owned it. The white thing stretched its limbs, rolled on the grass, righted itself and frisked away across the lawn. Still something white gleamed under the willow; three steps nearer and Gerald saw that it was the pedestal of a statue—empty.

“They come alive,” he said; and another white shape came out of the Temple of Flora and disappeared in the laurels. “The statues come alive.”

There was a crunching of the little stones in the gravel of the drive. Something enormously long and darkly grey came crawling towards him, slowly, heavily. The moon came out just in time to show its shape. It was one of those great lizards that you see at the Crystal Palace,^dh made in stone, of the same awful size which they were millions of years ago when they were masters of the world, before Man was.

“It can’t see me,” said Gerald. “I am not afraid. It’s come to life, too.”

As it writhed past him he reached out a hand and touched the side of its gigantic tail. It was of stone. It had not “come alive,” as he had fancied, but was alive in its stone. It turned, however, at the touch; but Gerald also had turned, and was running with all his speed towards the house. Because at that stony touch Fear had come into the garden and almost caught him. It was Fear that he ran from, and not the moving stone beast.

He stood panting under the fifth window; when he had climbed to the window-ledge by the twisted ivy that clung to the wall, he looked back over the grey slope—there was a splashing at the fish-pool that had mirrored the stars—the shape of the great stone beast was wallowing in the shallows among the lily-pads.

Once inside the room, Gerald turned for another look. The fish-pond lay still and dark, reflecting the moon. Through a gap in the drooping willow the moonlight fell on a statue that stood calm and motionless on its pedestal. Everything was in its place now in the garden. Nothing moved or stirred.

“How extraordinarily rum!” said Gerald. “I shouldn’t have thought you could go to sleep walking through a garden and dream—like that.”

He shut the window, lit a match, and closed the shutters. Another match showed him the door. He turned the key, went out, locked the door again, hung the key on its usual nail, and crept to the end of the passage. Here he waited, safe in his invisibility, till the dazzle of the matches should have gone from his eyes, and he be once more able to find his way by the moonlight that fell in bright patches on the floor through the barred, unshuttered windows of the hall.

The moving stone beast

“Wonder where the kitchen is,” said Gerald. He had quite forgotten that he was a detective. He was only anxious to get home and tell the others about that extraordinarily odd dream that he had had in the gardens. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what doors I open. I’m invisible all right still, I suppose? Yes; can’t see my hand before my face.” He held up a hand for the purpose. “Here goes!”

He opened many doors, wandered into long rooms with furniture dressed in brown holland covers^di that looked white in that strange light, rooms with chandeliers hanging in big bags from the high ceilings, rooms whose walls were alive with pictures, rooms whose walls were deadened with rows on rows of old books, state bedrooms in whose great plumed four-posters Queen Elizabeth had no doubt slept. (That Queen, by the way, must have been very little at home, for she seems to have slept in every old house in England.) But he could not find the kitchen. At last a door opened on stone steps that went up—there was a narrow stone passage—steps that went down—a door with a light under it. It was, somehow, difficult to put out one’s hand to that door and open it.

“Nonsense!” Gerald told himself, “don’t be an ass! Are you invisible, or aren’t you?”

Then he opened the door, and someone inside said something in a sudden rough growl.

Gerald stood back, flattened against the wall, as a man sprang to the doorway and flashed a lantern into the passage.

“All right,” said the man, with almost a sob of relief “It was only the door swung open, it’s that heavy—that’s all.”

“Blow the door!” said another growling voice; “blessed if I didn’t think it was a fair cop that time.”

They closed the door again. Gerald did not mind. In fact, he rather preferred that it should be so. He didn’t like the look of those men. There was an air of threat about them. In their presence even invisibility seemed too thin a disguise. And Gerald had seen as much as he wanted to see. He had seen that he had been right about the gang. By wonderful luck—beginner’s luck, a card-player would have told him—he had discovered a burglary on the very first night of his detective career. The men were taking silver out of two great chests, wrapping it in rags, and packing it in baize^dj sacks. The door of the room was of iron six inches thick. It was, in fact, the strong-room, and these men had picked the lock. The tools they had done it with lay on the floor, on a neat cloth roll, such as wood-carvers keep their chisels in.

The men were taking silver out of two great chests

“Hurry up!” Gerald heard. “You needn’t take all night over it.”

The silver rattled slightly. “You’re a rattling of them trays like bloomin’ castanets,” said the gruffest voice. Gerald turned and went away, very carefully and very quickly. And it is a most curious thing that, though he couldn’t find the way to the servants’ wing when he had nothing else to think of, yet now, with his mind full, so to speak, of silver forks and silver cups, and the question of who might be coming after him down those twisting passages, he went straight as an arrow to the door that led from the hall to the place he wanted to get to.

As he went the happenings took words in his mind.

“The fortunate detective,” he told himself, “having succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, himself left the spot in search of assistance.”

But what assistance? There were, no doubt, men in the house, also the aunt; but he could not warn them. He was too hopelessly invisible to carry any weight with strangers. The assistance of Mabel would not be of much value. The police? Before they could be got—and the getting of them presented difficulties—the burglars would have cleared away with their sacks of silver.

Gerald stopped and thought hard; he held his head with both hands to do it. You know the way—the same as you sometimes do for simple equations or the dates of the battles of the Civil War.

Then with pencil, note-book, a window-ledge, and all the cleverness he could find at the moment, he wrote:“You know the room where the silver is. Burglars are burgling it, the thick door is picked. Send a man for police. I will follow the burglars if they get away ere police arrive on the spot.”

He hesitated a moment, and ended—“From a Friend—this is not a sell.”

This letter, tied tightly round a stone by means of a shoelace, thundered through the window of the room where Mabel and her aunt, in the ardour of reunion, were enjoying a supper of unusual charm—stewed plums, cream, spongecakes, custard in cups, and cold bread-and-butter pudding.

Gerald, in hungry invisibility, looked wistfully at the supper before he threw the stone. He waited till the shrieks had died away, saw the stone picked up, the warning letter read.

“Nonsense!” said the aunt, growing calmer. “How wicked! Of course it’s a hoax.”

“Oh! do send for the police, like he says,” wailed Mabel.

“Like who says?” snapped the aunt.

“Whoever it is,” Mabel moaned.

“Send for the police at once,” said Gerald, outside, in the manliest voice he could find. “You’ll only blame yourself if you don’t. I can’t do any more for you.”

“I—I’ll set the dogs on you!” cried the aunt.

“Oh, auntie, don’t!” Mabel was dancing with agitation. “It’s true—I know it’s true. Do—do wake Bates!”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said the aunt. No more did Bates when, owing to Mabel’s persistent worryings, he was awakened. But when he had seen the paper, and had to choose whether he’d go to the strong-room and see that there really wasn’t anything to believe or go for the police on his bicycle, he chose the latter course.

When the police arrived the strong-room door stood ajar, and the silver, or as much of it as the three men could carry, was gone.

Gerald’s note-book and pencil came into play again later on that night. It was five in the morning before he crept into bed, tired out and cold as a stone.

“Master Gerald! ”—it was Eliza’s voice in his ears—“it’s seven o’clock and another fine day, and there’s been another burglary—My cats alive!” she screamed, as she drew up the blind and turned towards the bed; “look at his bed, all crocked^dk with black, and him not there! Oh, Jimminy!” It was a scream this time. Kathleen came running from her room; Jimmy sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes.

“Whatever is it?” Kathleen cried.

“I dunno when I ’ad such a turn.” Eliza sat down heavily on a box as she spoke. “First thing his bed all empty and black as the chimley ^dl back, and him not in it, and then when I looks again he is in it all the time. I must be going silly. I thought as much when I heard them haunting angel voices yesterday morning. But I’ll tell Mam’selle of you, my lad, with your tricks, you may rely on that. Blacking yourself all over and crocking up your clean sheets and pillow-cases. It’s going back of beyond, this is.”

“Look here,” said Gerald slowly; “I’m going to tell you something.”

Eliza simply snorted, and that was rude of her; but then, she had had a shock and had not got over it.

“Can you keep a secret?” asked Gerald, very earnest through the grey of his partly rubbed-off blacklead.

“Yes,” said Eliza.

“Then keep it and I’ll give you two bob.”

“But what was you going to tell me?”

“That. About the two bob and the secret. And you keep your mouth shut.”

“I didn’t ought to take it,” said Eliza, holding out her hand eagerly. “Now you get up, and mind you wash all the corners, Master Gerald.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe,” said Kathleen, when Eliza had gone.

“You didn’t seem to care much last night,” said Gerald coldly.

“I can’t think how I let you go. I didn’t care last night. But when I woke this morning and remembered!”

“There, that’ll do—it’ll come off on you,” said Gerald through the reckless hugging of his sister.

“How did you get visible?” Jimmy asked.

“It just happened when she called me—the ring came off.”

“Tell us all about everything,” said Kathleen.

“Not yet,” said Gerald mysteriously.

“Where’s the ring?” Jimmy asked after breakfast. “I want to have a try now

“I—I forgot it,” said Gerald; “I expect it’s in the bed somewhere.”

But it wasn’t. Eliza had made the bed.

“I’ll swear there ain’t no ring there,” she said. “I should ‘a’ seen it if there had ’a’ been.”

CHAPTER V

Search and research proving vain,” said Gerald, when every corner of the bedroom had been turned out and the ring had not been found, ”the noble detective hero of our tale remarked that he would have other fish to fry in half a jiff, and if the rest of you want to hear about last night ...”

“Let’s keep it till we get to Mabel,” said Kathleen heroically.

“The assignation was ten-thirty, wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t Gerald gas as we go along? I don’t suppose anything very much happened, anyhow.” This, of course, was Jimmy.

“That shows,” remarked Gerald sweetly, “how much you know. The melancholy Mabel will await the tryst without success, as far as this one is concerned. ‘Fish, fish, other fish—other fish I fry!’ ” he warbled to the tune of “Cherry Ripe,”⁵ till Kathleen could have pinched him.

Jimmy turned coldly away, remarking, “When you’ve quite done.”

But Gerald went on singing—“ ‘Where the lips of Johnson smile,

There’s the land of Cherry Isle.

Other fish, other fish,

Fish I fry.

Stately Johnson, come and buy!’ ”

“How can you,” asked Kathleen, “be so aggravating?”

“I don’t know,” said Gerald, returning to prose. “Want of sleep or intoxication—of success, I mean. Come where no one can hear us.“Oh, come to some island where no one can hear,

And beware of the keyhole that’s glued to an ear,”

he whispered, opened the door suddenly, and there, sure enough, was Eliza, stooping without. She flicked feebly at the wainscot with a duster, but concealment was vain.

“You know what listeners never hear,” said Jimmy severely.

“I didn’t, then—so there!” said Eliza, whose listening ears were crimson. So they passed out, and up the High Street, to sit on the churchyard wall and dangle their legs. And all the way Gerald’s lips were shut into a thin, obstinate line.

“Now,” said Kathleen. “Oh, Jerry, don’t be a goat! I’m simply dying to hear what happened.”

“That’s better,” said Gerald, and he told his story. As he told it some of the white mystery and magic of the moonlit gardens got into his voice and his words, so that when he told of the statues that came alive, and the great beast that was alive through all its stone, Kathleen thrilled responsive, clutching his arm, and even Jimmy ceased to kick the wall with his boot heels, and listened open-mouthed.

Then came the thrilling tale of the burglars, and the warning letter flung into the peaceful company of Mabel, her aunt, and the bread-and-butter pudding. Gerald told the story with the greatest enjoyment and such fullness of detail that the church clock chimed half-past eleven as he said, “Having done all that human agency could do, and further help being despaired of, our gallant young detective—Hullo, there’s Mabel!”

There was. The tail-board of a cart shed her almost at their feet.

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” she explained, “when you didn’t come. And I got a lift. Has anything more happened? The burglars had gone when Bates got to the strong-room.”

“You don’t mean to say all that wheeze is real?” Jimmy asked.

“Of course it’s real,” said Kathleen. “Go on, Jerry. He’s just got to where he threw the stone into your bread-and-butter pudding, Mabel. Go on.”

Mabel climbed on to the wall. “You’ve got visible again quicker than I did,” she said.

Gerald nodded and resumed:

“Our story must be told in as few words as possible, owing to the fish-frying taking place at twelve, and it’s past the half-hour now. Having left his missive to do its warning work, Gerald de Sherlock Holmes sped back, wrapped in invisibility, to the spot where by the light of their dark-lanterns the burglars were still—still burgling with the utmost punctuality and despatch. I didn’t see any sense in running into danger, so I just waited outside the passage where the steps are—you know?”

Mabel nodded.

“Presently they came out, very cautiously, of course, and looked about them. They didn’t see me—so deeming themselves unobserved they passed in silent Indian file along the passage—one of the sacks of silver grazed my front part—and out into the night.”

“But which way?”

“Through the little looking-glass room where you looked at yourself when you were invisible. The hero followed swiftly on his invisible tennis-shoes. The three miscreants instantly sought the shelter of the groves and passed stealthily among the rhododendrons and across the park, and”—his voice dropped and he looked straight before him at the pinky convolvulus netting a heap of stones beyond the white dust of the road—“the stone things that come alive, they kept looking out from between bushes and under trees—and I saw them all right, but they didn’t see me. They saw the burglars though, right enough; but the burglars couldn’t see them. Rum, wasn’t it?”

“The stone things?” Mabel had to have them explained to her.

“I never saw them come alive,” she said, “and I’ve been in the gardens in the evening as often as often.”

“I saw them,” said Gerald stiffly.

“I know, I know,” Mabel hastened to put herself right with him; “what I mean to say is I shouldn’t wonder if they’re only visible when you’re invisible—the liveness of them, I mean, not the stoniness.”

Gerald understood, and I’m sure I hope you do.

“I shouldn’t wonder if you’re right,” he said. “The castle garden’s enchanted right enough; but what I should like to know is how and why. I say, come on, I’ve got to catch Johnson before twelve. We’ll walk as far as the market and then we’ll have to run for it.”

“But go on with the adventure,” said Mabel. “You can talk as we go. Oh, do—it is so awfully thrilling!”

This pleased Gerald, of course.

“Well, I just followed, you know, like in a dream, and they got out the cavy way—you know, where we got in—and I jolly well thought I’d lost them; I had to wait till they’d moved off down the road so that they shouldn’t hear me rattling the stones, and I had to tear to catch them up. I took my shoes off—I expect my stockings are done for. And I followed and followed and followed and they went through the place where the poor people live, and right down to the river. And—I say, we must run for it.”

So the story stopped and the running began.

Johnson in his own back-yard washing

They caught Johnson in his own back-yard washing at a bench against his own back-door.

“Look here, Johnson,” Gerald said, “what’ll you give me if I put you up to winning that fifty pounds reward?”

“Halves,” said Johnson promptly, “and a clout ’long-side your head if you was coming any of your nonsense over me.”

“It’s not nonsense,” said Gerald very impressively. “If you’ll let us in I’ll tell you all about it. And when you’ve caught the burglars and got the swag^dm back you just give me a quid^dn for luck. I won’t ask for more.”

“Come along in, then,” said Johnson, “if the young ladies’ll excuse the towel. But I bet you do want something more off of me. Else why not claim the reward yourself?”

“Great is the wisdom of Johnson—he speaks winged words.” The children were all in the cottage now, and the door was shut. “I want you never to let on who told you. Let them think it was your own unaided pluck and far-sightedness.”

“Sit you down,” said Johnson, “and if you’re kidding you’d best send the little gells home afore I begin on you.”

“I am not kidding,” replied Gerald loftily, “never less. And anyone but a policeman would see why I don’t want anyone to know it was me. I found it out at dead of night, in a place where I wasn’t supposed to be; and there’d be a beastly row if they found out at home about me being out nearly all night. Now do you see, my bright-eyed daisy?”

Johnson was now too interested, as Jimmy said afterwards, to mind what silly names he was called. He said he did see—and asked to see more.

“Well, don’t you ask any questions, then. I’ll tell you all it’s good for you to know. Last night about eleven I was at Yalding Towers. No—it doesn’t matter how I got there or what I got there for—and there was a window open and I got in, and there was a light. And it was in the strong-room, and there were three men, putting silver in a bag.”

“Was it you give the warning, and they sent for the police?” Johnson was leaning eagerly forward, a hand on each knee.

“Yes, that was me. You can let them think it was you, if you like. You were off duty, weren’t you?”

“I was,” said Johnson, “in the arms of Murphy—”^do

“Well, the police didn’t come quick enough. But I was there—a lonely detective. And I followed them.”

“You did?”

“And I saw them hide the booty and I know the other stuff from Houghton’s Court’s in the same place, and I heard them arrange about when to take it away.”

“Come and show me where,” said Johnson, jumping up so quickly that his Windsor arm-chair fell over backwards, with a crack, on the red-brick floor.

“Not so,” said Gerald calmly; “if you go near the spot before the appointed time you’ll find the silver, but you’ll never catch the thieves.”

“You’re right there.” The policeman picked up his chair and sat down in it again. “Well?”

“Well, there’s to be a motor to meet them in the lane beyond the boat-house by Sadler’s Rents at one o’clock tonight. They’ll get the things out at half-past twelve and take them along in a boat. So now’s your chance to fill your pockets with chink^dp and cover yourself with honour and glory.”

“So help me!”—Johnson was pensive and doubtful still—“so help me! you couldn’t have made all this up out of your head.”

“Oh yes, I could. But I didn’t. Now look here. It’s the chance of your lifetime, Johnson! A quid for me, and a still tongue for you, and the job’s done. Do you agree?”

“Oh, I agree right enough,” said Johnson. “I agree. But if you’re coming any of your larks—”

“Can’t you see he isn’t?” Kathleen put in impatiently. “He’s not a liar—we none of us are.”

“If you’re not on, say so,” said Gerald, “and I’ll find another policeman with more sense.”

“I could split about you being out all night,” said Johnson.

“But you wouldn’t be so ungentlemanly,” said Mabel brightly. “Don’t you be so unbelieving, when we’re trying to do you a good turn.”

“If I were you,” Gerald advised, “I’d go to the place where the silver is, with two other men. You could make a nice little ambush in the wood-yard—it’s close there. And I’d have two or three more men up trees in the lane to wait for the motor-car.”

“You ought to have been in the force, you ought,” said Johnson admiringly; “but s’pose it was a hoax!”

“Well, then you’d have made an ass of yourself—I don’t suppose it ud be the first time,” said Jimmy.

“Are you on?” said Gerald in haste. “Hold your jaw, Jimmy, you idiot!”

“Yes,” said Johnson.

“Then when you’re on duty you go down to the wood-yard, and the place where you see me blow my nose is the place. The sacks are tied with string to the posts under the water. You just stalk by in your dignified beauty and make a note of the spot. That’s where glory waits you, and when Fame elates you and you’re a sergeant, please remember me.”

Johnson said he was blessed. He said it more than once, and then remarked that he was on, and added that he must be off that instant minute.

Johnson’s cottage lies just out of the town beyond the blacksmith’s forge and the children had come to it through the wood. They went back the same way, and then down through the town, and through its narrow, unsavoury streets to the towing-path by the timber yard. Here they ran along the trunks of the big trees, peeped into the saw-pit, and—the men were away at dinner and this was a favourite play place of every boy within miles—made themselves a see-saw with a fresh cut, sweet-smelling pine plank and an elm-root.

“What a ripping place!” said Mabel, breathless on the see-saw’s end. “I believe I like this better than pretending games or even magic.”

“So do I,” said Jimmy. “Jerry, don’t keep sniffing so—you’ll have no nose left.”

“I can’t help it,” Gerald answered; “I daren’t use my hankey for fear Johnson’s on the lookout somewhere unseen. I wish I’d thought of some other signal.” Sniff! “No, nor I shouldn’t want to now if I hadn’t got not to. That’s what’s so rum. The moment I got down here and remembered what I’d said about the signal I began to have a cold—and—Thank goodness! here he is.”

The children, with a fine air of unconcern, abandoned the see-saw.

“Follow my leader!” Gerald cried, and ran along a barked oak trunk, the others following. In and out and round about ran the file of children, over heaps of logs, under the jutting ends of piled planks, and just as the policeman’s heavy boots trod the towing-path Gerald halted at the end of a little landing-stage of rotten boards, with a rickety handrail, cried “Pax!” and blew his nose with loud fervour.

“Morning,” he said immediately.

Gerald halted at the end of a little landing-stage

“Morning,” said Johnson. “Got a cold, ain’t you?”

“Ah! I shouldn’t have a cold if I’d got boots like yours,” returned Gerald admiringly. “Look at them. Anyone ud know your fairy footstep a mile off. How do you ever get near enough to anyone to arrest them?” He skipped off the landing-stage, whispered as he passed Johnson, “Courage, promptitude, and dispatch. That’s the place,” and was off again, the active leader of an active procession.

“We’ve brought a friend home to dinner,” said Kathleen, when Eliza opened the door. “Where’s Mademoiselle?”

“Gone to see Yalding Towers. Today’s show day, you know. An’ just you hurry over your dinners. It’s my afternoon out, and my gentleman friend don’t like it if he’s kept waiting.”

“All right, we’ll eat like lightning,” Gerald promised. “Set another place, there’s an angel.”

They kept their word. The dinner—it was minced veal and potatoes and rice-pudding, perhaps the dullest food in the world—was over in a quarter of an hour.

“And now,” said Mabel, when Eliza and a jug of hot water had disappeared up the stairs together, “where’s the ring? I ought to put it back.”

“I haven’t had a turn yet,” said Jimmy. “When we find it Cathy and I ought to have turns same as you and Gerald did.”

“When you find it—?” Mabel’s pale face turned paler between her dark locks.

“I’m very sorry—we’re all very sorry,” began Kathleen, and then the story of the losing had to be told.

“You couldn’t have looked properly,” Mabel protested. “It can’t have vanished.”

“You don’t know what it can do—no more do we. It’s no use getting your quills up, fair lady. Perhaps vanishing itself is just what it does do. You see, it came off my hand in the bed. We looked everywhere.”

“Would you mind if I looked?” Mabel’s eyes implored her little hostess. “You see, if it’s lost it’s my fault. It’s almost the same as stealing. That Johnson would say it was just the same. I know he would.”

“Let’s all look again,” said Cathy, jumping up. “We were rather in a hurry this morning.”

So they looked, and they looked. In the bed, under the bed, under the carpet, under the furniture. They shook the curtains, they explored the corners, and found dust and flue, but no ring. They looked, and they looked. Everywhere they looked. Jimmy even looked fixedly at the ceiling, as though he thought the ring might have bounced up there and stuck. But it hadn’t.

“Then,” said Mabel at last, “your housemaid must have stolen it. That’s all. I shall tell her I think so.”

And she would have done it too, but at that moment the front door banged and they knew that Eliza had gone forth in all the glory of her best things to meet her “gentleman friend.”

“It’s no use”—Mabel was almost in tears; “look here—will you leave me alone? Perhaps you others looking distracts me. And I’ll go over every inch of the room by myself.”

“Respecting the emotion of their guest, the kindly charcoal-burners withdrew,” said Gerald. And they closed the door softly from the outside on Mabel and her search.

They waited for her, of course—politeness demanded it, and besides, they had to stay at home to let Mademoiselle in; though it was a dazzling day, and Jimmy had just remembered that Gerald’s pockets were full of the money earned at the fair, and that nothing had yet been bought with that money, except a few buns in which he had had no share. And of course they waited impatiently.

It seemed about an hour, and was really quite ten minutes, before they heard the bedroom door open and Mabel’s feet on the stairs.

“She hasn’t found it,” Gerald said.

“How do you know?” Jimmy asked.

“The way she walks,” said Gerald. You can, in fact, almost always tell whether the thing has been found that people have gone to look for by the sound of their feet as they return. Mabel’s feet said “No go” as plain as they could speak. And her face confirmed the cheerless news.

A sudden and violent knocking at the back door prevented anyone from having to be polite about how sorry they were, or fanciful about being sure the ring would turn up soon.

All the servants except Eliza were away on their holidays, so the children went together to open the door, because, as Gerald said, if it was the baker they could buy a cake from him and eat it for dessert. “That kind of dinner sort of needs dessert,” he said.

But it was not the baker. When they opened the door they saw in the paved court where the pump is, and the dust-bin, and the water-butt, ^dq a young man, with his hat very much on one side, his mouth open under his fair bristly moustache, and his eyes as nearly round as human eyes can be. He wore a suit of a bright mustard colour, a blue necktie, and a goldish watch-chain across his waistcoat. His body was thrown back and his right arm stretched out towards the door, and his expression was that of a person who is being dragged somewhere against his will. He looked so strange that Kathleen tried to shut the door in his face, murmuring, “Escaped insane.” But the door would not close. There was something in the way.

“Leave go of me!” said the young man.

“Ho yus! I’ll leave go of you!” It was the voice of Eliza—but no Eliza could be seen.

“Who’s got hold of you?” asked Kathleen.

“She has, miss,” replied the unhappy stranger.

“Who’s she?” asked Kathleen, to gain time, as she afterwards explained, for she now knew well enough that what was keeping the door open was Eliza’s unseen foot.

“My fyongsay, miss. At least it sounds like her voice, and it feels like her bones, but something’s come over me, miss, an’ I can’t see her.”

“That’s what he keeps on saying,” said Eliza’s voice. “ ’E’s my gentleman friend; is ’e gone dotty, or is it me?”

“Both, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Jimmy

“Now,” said Eliza, “you call yourself a man; you look me in the face and say you can’t see me.”

“Well—I can’t,” said the wretched gentleman friend.

“If I’d stolen a ring,” said Gerald, looking at the sky, “I should go indoors and be quiet, not stand at the back door and make an exhibition of myself.”

“Not much exhibition about her,” whispered Jimmy; “good old ring!”

“I haven’t stolen anything,” said the gentleman friend. “Here, you leave me be. It’s my eyes has gone wrong. Leave go of me, d’ye hear?”

Suddenly his hand dropped and he staggered back against the water-butt. Eliza had “left go” of him. She pushed past the children, shoving them aside with her invisible elbows. Gerald caught her by the arm with one hand, felt for her ear with the other, and whispered, “You stand still and don’t say a word. If you do—well, what’s to stop me from sending for the police?”

Eliza did not know what there was to stop him. So she did as she was told, and stood invisible and silent, save for a sort of blowing, snorting noise peculiar to her when she was out of breath.

The mustard-coloured young man had recovered his balance, and stood looking at the children with eyes, if possible, rounder than before.

He staggered back against the water-butt

“What is it?” he gasped feebly. “What’s up? What’s it all about?”

“If you don’t know, I’m afraid we can’t tell you,” said Gerald politely.

“Have I been talking very strange-like?” he asked, taking off his hat and passing his hand over his forehead.

“Very,” said Mabel.

“I hope I haven’t said anything that wasn’t good manners,” he said anxiously.

“Not at all,” said Kathleen. “You only said your fiancée had hold of your hand, and that you couldn’t see her.”

“No more I can.”

“No more can we,” said Mabel.

“But I couldn’t have dreamed it, and then come along here making a penny show of myself like this, could I?”

“You know best,” said Gerald courteously

“But,” the mustard-coloured victim almost screamed, “do you mean to tell me ...”

“I don’t mean to tell you anything,” said Gerald quite truly, “but I’ll give you a bit of advice. You go home and lie down a bit and put a wet rag on your head. You’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“But I haven’t—”

“I should,” said Mabel; “the sun’s very hot, you know.”

“I feel all right now,” he said, “but—well, I can only say I’m sorry, that’s all I can say. I’ve never been taken like this before, miss. I’m not subject to it—don’t you think that. But I could have sworn Eliza—Ain’t she gone out to meet me?”

“Eliza’s indoors,” said Mabel. “She can’t come out to meet anybody today.”

“You won’t tell her about me carrying on this way, will you, miss? It might set her against me if she thought I was liable to fits, which I never was from a child.”

“We won’t tell Eliza anything about you.”

“And you’ll overlook the liberty?”

“Of course. We know you couldn’t help it,” said Kathleen. “You go home and lie down. I’m sure you must need it. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, I’m sure, miss,” he said dreamily. “All the same I can feel the print of her finger-bones on my hand while I’m saying it. And you won’t let it get round to my boss—my employer I mean? Fits of all sorts are against a man in any trade.”

“No, no, no, it’s all right—good-bye,” said everyone. And a silence fell as he went slowly round the water-butt and the green yard-gate shut behind him. The silence was broken by Eliza.

“Give me up!” she said. “Give me up to break my heart in a prison cell!”

There was a sudden splash, and a round wet drop lay on the doorstep.

“Thunder shower,” said Jimmy; but it was a tear from Eliza.

“Give me up,” she went on, “give me up”—splash “but don’t let me be took here in the town where I’m known and respected”—splash. “I’ll walk ten miles to be took by a strange police—not Johnson as keeps company with my own cousin”—splash. “But I do thank you for one thing. You didn’t tell Elf as I’d stolen the ring. And I didn’t”—splash—“I only sort of borrowed it, it being my day out, and my gentleman friend such a toff,^dr like you can see for yourselves.”

The children had watched, spellbound, the interesting tears that became visible as they rolled off the invisible nose of the miserable Eliza. Now Gerald roused himself, and spoke.

“It’s no use your talking,” he said. “We can’t see you!”

“That’s what he said,” said Eliza’s voice, “but—”

“You can’t see yourself,” Gerald went on. “Where’s your hand?”

Eliza, no doubt, tried to see it, and of course failed; for instantly, with a shriek that might have brought the police if there had been any about, she went into a violent fit of hysterics. The children did what they could, everything that they had read of in books as suitable to such occasions, but it is extremely difficult to do the right thing with an invisible housemaid in strong hysterics and her best clothes. That was why the best hat was found, later on, to be completely ruined, and why the best blue dress was never quite itself again. And as they were burning bits of the feather dusting-brush as nearly under Eliza’s nose as they could guess, a sudden spurt of flame and a horrible smell, as the flame died between the quick hands of Gerald, showed but too plainly that Eliza’s feather boa had tried to help.

It did help. Eliza “came to” with a deep sob and said, “Don’t burn me real ostrich stole; I’m better now.”

They helped her up and she sat down on the bottom step, and the children explained to her very carefully and quite kindly that she really was invisible, and that if you steal—or even borrow—rings you can never be sure what will happen to you.

“But ’ave I got to go on stopping like this,” she moaned, when they had fetched the little mahogany looking-glass from its nail over the kitchen sink, and convinced her that she was really invisible, “for ever and ever? An’ we was to a bin married come Easter. No one won’t marry a gell as ’e can’t see. It ain’t likely.”

“No, not for ever and ever,” said Mabel kindly, “but you’ve got to go through with it—like measles. I expect you’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“Tonight, I think,” said Gerald.

“We’ll help you all we can, and not tell anyone,” said Kathleen.

“Not even the police,” said Jimmy.

“Now let’s get Mademoiselle’s tea ready,” said Gerald.

“And ours,” said Jimmy.

“No,” said Gerald, “we’ll have our tea out. We’ll have a picnic and we’ll take Eliza. I’ll go out and get the cakes.”

“I shan’t eat no cake, Master Jerry,” said Eliza’s voice, “so don’t you think it. You’d see it going down inside my chest. It wouldn’t be what I should call nice of me to have cake showing through me in the open air. Oh, it’s a dreadful judgement—just for a borrow!”

They reassured her, set the tea, deputed Kathleen to let in Mademoiselle—who came home tired and a little sad, it seemed—waited for her and Gerald and the cakes, and started off for Yalding Towers.

“Picnic parties aren’t allowed,” said Mabel.

“Ours will be,” said Gerald briefly. “Now, Eliza, you catch on to Kathleen’s arm and I’ll walk behind to conceal your shadow. My aunt! take your hat off; it makes your shadow look like I don’t know what. People will think we’re the county lunatic asylum turned loose.”

It was then that the hat, becoming visible in Kathleen’s hand, showed how little of the sprinkled water had gone where it was meant to go—on Eliza’s face.

“Me best ’at,” said Eliza, and there was a silence with sniffs in it.

“Look here,” said Mabel, “you cheer up. Just you think this is all a dream. It’s just the kind of thing you might dream if your conscience had got pains in it about the ring.”

“But will I wake up again?”

“Oh yes, you’ll wake up again. Now we’re going to bandage your eyes and take you through a very small door, and don’t you resist, or we’ll bring a policeman into the dream like a shot.”

I have not time to describe Eliza’s entrance into the cave. She went head first: the girls propelled and the boys received her. If Gerald had not thought of tying her hands someone would certainly have been scratched. As it was Mabel’s hand was scraped between the cold rock and a passionate boot-heel. Nor will I tell you all that she said as they led her along the fern-bordered gully and through the arch into the wonderland of Italian scenery. She had but little language left when they removed her bandage under a weeping willow where a statue of Diana,^ds bow in hand, stood poised on one toe, a most unsuitable attitude for archery, I have always thought.

“Now,” said Gerald, “it’s all over—nothing but niceness now and cake and things.”

“It’s time we did have our tea,” said jimmy. And it was.

Eliza, once convinced that her chest, though invisible, was not transparent, and that her companions could not by looking through it count how many buns she had eaten, made an excellent meal. So did the others. If you want really to enjoy your tea, have minced veal and potatoes and rice-pudding for dinner, with several hours of excitement to follow, and take your tea late.

The soft, cool green and grey of the garden were changing—the green grew golden, the shadows black, and the lake where the swans were mirrored upside down, under the Temple of Phoebus,^† was bathed in rosy light from the little fluffy clouds that lay opposite the sunset.

“It is pretty,” said Eliza, “just like a picture-postcard, ain’t it?—the tuppenny kind.”

“I ought to be getting home,” said Mabel.

“I can’t go home like this. I’d stay and be a savage and live in that white hut if it had any walls and doors,” said Eliza.

“She means the Temple of Dionysus,”^‡ said Mabel, pointing to it.

The sun set suddenly behind the line of black fir-trees on the top of the slope, and the white temple, that had been pink, turned grey.

“It would be a very nice place to live in even as it is,” said Kathleen.

“Draughty,” said Eliza, “and law, what a lot of steps to clean! What they make houses for without no walls to ’em? Who’d live in—” She broke off, stared, and added: ”What’s that?”

“What?”

“That white thing coming down the steps. Why, it’s a young man in statooary.”

“The statues do come alive here, after sunset,” said Gerald in very matter-of-fact tones.

“I see they do.” Eliza did not seem at all surprised or alarmed. “There’s another of ’em. Look at them little wings to his feet like pi geons.”

“I expect that’s Mercury,”^dt said Gerald.

“It’s ‘Hermes’^du under the statue that’s got wings on its feet,” said Mabel, “but—”

“I don’t see any statues,” said Jimmy. “What are you punching me for?”

“Don’t you see?” Gerald whispered; but he need not have been so troubled, for all Eliza’s attention was with her wandering eyes that followed hither and thither the quick movements of unseen statues. “Don’t you see? The statues come alive when the sun goes down—and you can’t see them unless you’re invisible—and I—if you do see them you’re not frightened—unless you touch them.”

“Let’s get her to touch one and see,” said Jimmy.

“ ’E’s lep’ into the water,” said Eliza in a rapt voice. “My, can’t he swim neither! And the one with the pigeons’ wings is flying all over the lake having larks with ’im. I do call that pretty. It’s like cupids as you see on wedding-cakes. And here’s another of ‘em, a little chap with long ears and a baby deer galloping alongside! An’ look at the lady with the baby, throwing it up and catching it like as if it was a ball. I wonder she ain’t afraid. But it’s pretty to see ’em.”

The broad park lay stretched before the children in growing greyness and a stillness that deepened. Amid the thickening shadows they could see the statues gleam white and motionless. But Eliza saw other things. She watched in silence presently, and they watched silently, and the evening fell like a veil that grew heavier and blacker. And it was night. And the moon came up above the trees.

“ ’E’s lep’ into the water”

“Oh,” cried Eliza suddenly, “here’s the dear little boy with the deer—he’s coming right for me, bless his heart!”

Next moment she was screaming, and her screams grew fainter and there was the sound of swift boots on gravel.

“Come on!” cried Gerald; “she touched it, and then she was frightened. Just like I was. Run! she’ll send everyone in the town mad if she gets there like that. Just a voice and boots! Run! Run!”

They ran. But Eliza had the start of them. Also when she ran on the grass they could not hear her footsteps and had to wait for the sound of leather on far-away gravel. Also she was driven by fear, and fear drives fast.

She went, it seemed, the nearest way, invisibly through the waxing moonlight, seeing she only knew what amid the glades and groves.

“I’ll stop here; see you tomorrow,” gasped Mabel, as the loud pursuers followed Eliza’s clatter across the terrace. “She’s gone through the stable yard.”

“The back way,” Gerald panted as they turned the corner of their own street, and he and Jimmy swung in past the water-butt.

An unseen but agitated presence seemed to be fumbling with the locked back-door. The church clock struck the half-hour.

“Half-past nine,” Gerald had just breath to say. “Pull at the ring. Perhaps it’ll come off now.”

He spoke to the bare doorstep. But it was Eliza, dishevelled, breathless, her hair coming down, her collar crooked, her dress twisted and disordered, who suddenly held out a hand—a hand that they could see; and in the hand, plainly visible in the moonlight, the dark circle of the magic ring.

“ ’Alf a mo!”^dv said Eliza’s gentleman friend next morning. He was waiting for her when she opened the door with pail and hearthstone in her hand. “Sorry you couldn’t come out yesterday.”

“So’m I.” Eliza swept the wet flannel along the top step. “What did you do?”

“I ’ad a bit of a headache,” said the gentleman friend. “I laid down most of the afternoon. What were you up to?”

“Oh, nothing pertickler,” said Eliza.

It was Eliza, dishevelled, breathless

“Then it was all a dream,” she said, when he was gone; “but it’ll be a lesson to me not to meddle with anybody’s old ring again in a hurry.”

“So they didn’t tell ’er about me behaving like I did,” said he as he went—“sun, I suppose—like our Army in India. I hope I ain’t going to be liable to it, that’s all!”

CHAPTER VI

Johnson was the hero of the hour. It was he who had tracked the burglars, laid his plans, and recovered the lost silver. He had not thrown the stone—public opinion decided that Mabel and her aunt must have been mistaken in supposing that there was a stone at all. But he did not deny the warning letter. It was Gerald who went out after breakfast to buy the newspaper, and who read aloud to the others the two columns of fiction which were the Liddlesby Observer’s report of the facts. As he read every mouth opened wider and wider, and when he ceased with “this gifted fellow-townsman with detective instincts which out-rival those of Messrs. Lecoq and Holmes,^dw and whose promotion is now assured,” there was quite a blank silence.

“Well,” said Jimmy, breaking it, “he doesn’t stick it on neither, does he?”

“I feel,” said Kathleen, “as if it was our fault—as if it was us had told all these whoppers; because if it hadn’t been for you they couldn’t have, Jerry. How could he say all that?”

“Well,” said Gerald, trying to be fair, “you know, after all, the chap had to say something. I’m glad I—” He stopped abruptly.

“You’re glad you what?”

“No matter,” said he, with an air of putting away affairs of state. “Now, what are we going to do today? The faithful Mabel approaches; she will want her ring. And you and Jimmy want it too. Oh, I know. Mademoiselle hasn’t had any attention paid to her for more days than our hero likes to confess.”

“I wish you wouldn’t always call yourself ‘our hero, said Jimmy; ”you aren’t mine, anyhow.”

“You’re both of you mine,” said Kathleen hastily.

“Good little girl.” Gerald smiled annoyingly. “Keep baby brother in a good temper till Nursie comes back.”

“You’re not going out without us?” Kathleen asked in haste.“ ‘I haste away,

’Tis market day,’ ”

sang Gerald,“ ‘And in the market there

Buy roses for my fair.”

If you want to come too, get your boots on, and look slippy about it.”

“I don’t want to come,” said Jimmy, and sniffed.

Kathleen turned a despairing look on Gerald.

“Oh, James, James,” said Gerald sadly, “how difficult you make it for me to forget that you’re my little brother! If ever I treat you like one of the other chaps, and rot you like I should Turner or Moberley or any of my pals—well, this is what comes of it.”

“You don’t call them your baby brothers,” said Jimmy, and truly.

“No; and I’ll take precious good care I don’t call you it again. Come on, my hero and heroine. The devoted Mesrour is your salaaming slave.^dx

The three met Mabel opportunely at the corner of the square where every Friday the stalls and the awnings and the green umbrellas were pitched, and poultry, pork, pottery, vegetables, drapery, sweets, toys, tools, mirrors, and all sorts of other interesting merchandise were spread out on trestle tables, piled on carts whose horses were stabled and whose shafts were held in place by piled wooden cases, or laid out, as in the case of crockery and hardware, on the bare flagstones of the market-place.

The sun was shining with great goodwill, and, as Mabel remarked, “all Nature looked smiling and gay.” There were a few bunches of flowers among the vegetables, and the children hesitated, balanced in choice.

“Mignonette is sweet,” said Mabel.

“Roses are roses,” said Kathleen.

“Carnations are tuppence,” said Jimmy; and Gerald, sniffing among the bunches of tightly-tied tea-roses, agreed that this settled it.

So the carnations were bought, a bunch of yellow ones, like sulphur, a bunch of white ones like clotted cream, and a bunch of red ones like the cheeks of the doll that Kathleen never played with. They took the carnations home, and Kathleen’s green hair-ribbon came in beautifully for tying them up, which was hastily done on the doorstep.

Then discreetly Gerald knocked at the door of the drawing-room, where Mademoiselle seemed to sit all day.

“Entrez!” came her voice; and Gerald entered. She was not reading, as usual, but bent over a sketch-book; on the table was an open colour-box of un-English appearance, and a box of that slate-coloured liquid so familiar alike to the greatest artist in watercolours and to the humblest child with a sixpenny paint-box.

“With all of our loves,” said Gerald, laying the flowers down suddenly before her.

“But it is that you are a dear child. For this it must that I embrace you—no?” And before Gerald could explain that he was too old, she kissed him with little quick French pecks on the two cheeks.

“Are you painting?” he asked hurriedly, to hide his annoyance at being treated like a baby.

“I achieve a sketch of yesterday,” she answered; and before he had time to wonder what yesterday would look like in a picture she showed him a beautiful and exact sketch of Yalding Towers.

“Oh, I say—ripping!” was the critic’s comment. “I say, mayn’t the others come and see?” The others came, including Mabel, who stood awkwardly behind the rest, and looked over Jimmy’s shoulder.

“I say, you are clever,” said Gerald respectfully.

“To what good to have the talent, when one must pass one’s life at teaching the infants?” said Mademoiselle.

“It must be fairly beastly,” Gerald owned.

She kissed him with little quick French pecks

“You, too, see the design?” Mademoiselle asked Mabel, adding: “A friend from the town, yes?”

“How do you do?” said Mabel politely. “No, I’m not from the town. I live at Yalding Towers.”

The name seemed to impress Mademoiselle very much. Gerald anxiously hoped in his own mind that she was not a snob.

“Yalding Towers,” she repeated, “but this is very extraordinary. Is it possible that you are then of the family of Lord Yalding?”

“He hasn’t any family,” said Mabel; “he’s not married.”

“I would say are you—how you say?—cousin—sister—niece?”

“No,” said Mabel, flushing hotly, “I’m nothing grand at all. I’m Lord Yalding’s housekeeper’s niece.”

“But you know Lord Yalding, is it not?”

“No,” said Mabel, “I’ve never seen him.”

“He comes then never to his château?”

“Not since I’ve lived there. But he’s coming next week.”

“Why lives he not there?” Mademoiselle asked.

“Auntie says he’s too poor,” said Mabel, and proceeded to tell the tale as she had heard it in the housekeeper’s room: how Lord Yalding’s uncle had left all the money he could leave away from Lord Yalding to Lord Yalding’s second cousin, and poor Lord Yalding had only just enough to keep the old place in repair, and to live very quietly indeed somewhere else, but not enough to keep the house open or to live there; and how he couldn’t sell the house because it was “in tale.”^dy

“What is it then—in tail?” asked Mademoiselle.

“In a tale that the lawyers write out,” said Mabel, proud of her knowledge and flattered by the deep interest of the French governess; “and when once they’ve put your house in one of their tales you can’t sell it or give it away, but you have to leave it to your son, even if you don’t want to.”

“But how his uncle could he be so cruel—to leave him the château and no money?” Mademoiselle asked; and Kathleen and Jimmy stood amazed at the sudden keenness of her interest in what seemed to them the dullest story.

“Oh, I can tell you that too,” said Mabel. “Lord Yalding wanted to marry a lady his uncle didn’t want him to, a barmaid or a ballet lady or something, and he wouldn’t give her up, and his uncle said, ‘Well then,’ and left everything to the cousin.”

“And you say he is not married.”

“No—the lady went into a convent; I expect she’s bricked-up alive by now.”

“Bricked—?”

“In a wall, you know,” said Mabel, pointing explainingly at the pink and gilt roses of the wall-paper, “shut up to kill them. That’s what they do to you in convents.”

“Not at all,” said Mademoiselle; “in convents are very kind good women; there is but one thing in convents that is detestable—the locks on the doors. Sometimes people cannot get out, especially when they are very young and their relations have placed them there for their welfare and happiness. But brick—how you say it?—enwalling ladies to kill them. No—it does itself never. And this Lord—he did not then seek his lady?”

“Oh, yes—he sought her right enough,” Mabel assured her; “but there are millions of convents, you know, and he had no idea where to look, and they sent back his letters from the post-office, and—”

“Ciel!”^dz cried Mademoiselle, “but it seems that one knows all in the housekeeper’s saloon.”

“Pretty well all,” said Mabel simply.

“And you think he will find her? No?”

“Oh, he’ll find her all right,” said Mabel, “when he’s old and broken down, you know—and dying; and then a gentle sister of charity will soothe his pillow, and just when he’s dying she’ll reveal herself and say: ‘My own lost love!’ and his face will light up with a wonderful joy and he’ll expire with her beloved name on his parched lips.”

Mademoiselle’s was the silence of sheer astonishment. “You do the prophecy, it appears?” she said at last.

“Oh no,” said Mabel, “I got that out of a book. I can tell you lots more fatal love stories any time you like.”

The French governess gave a little jump, as though she had suddenly remembered something.

“It is nearly dinner-time,” she said. “Your friend—Mabelle, yes—will be your convivial, and in her honour we will make a little feast. My beautiful flowers—put them to the water, Kathleen. I run to buy the cakes. Wash the hands, all, and be ready when I return.”

Smiling and nodding to the children, she left them, and ran up the stairs.

“Just as if she was young,” said Kathleen.

“She is young,” said Mabel. “Heaps of ladies have offers of marriage when they’re no younger than her. I’ve seen lots of weddings too, with much older brides. And why didn’t you tell me she was so beautiful?”

“Is she?” asked Kathleen.

“Of course she is; and what a darling to think of cakes for me, and calling me a convivial!”

“Look here,” said Gerald, “I call this jolly decent of her. You know, governesses never have more than the meanest pittance, just enough to sustain life, and here she is spending her little all on us. Supposing we just don’t go out today, but play with her instead. I expect she’s most awfully bored really.”

“Would she really like it?” Kathleen wondered. “Aunt Emily says grown-ups never really like playing. They do it to please us.”

“They little know,” Gerald answered, “how often we do it to please them.”

“We’ve got to do that dressing-up with the Princess clothes anyhow—we said we would,” said Kathleen. “Let’s treat her to that.”

“Rather near tea-time,” urged Jimmy, “so that there’ll be a fortunate interruption and the play won’t go on for ever.”

“I suppose all the things are safe?” Mabel asked.

“Quite. I told you where I put them. Come on, Jimmy; let’s help lay the table. We’ll get Eliza to put out the best china.”

They went.

“It was lucky,” said Gerald, struck by a sudden thought, “that the burglars didn’t go for the diamonds in the treasure-chamber.”

“They couldn’t,” said Mabel almost in a whisper; “they didn’t know about them. I don’t believe anybody knows about them, except me—and you, and you’re sworn to secrecy.” This, you will remember, had been done almost at the beginning. “I know aunt doesn’t know. I just found out the spring by accident. Lord Yalding’s kept the secret well.”

“I wish I’d got a secret like that to keep,” said Gerald.

“If the burglars do know,” said Mabel, “it’ll all come out at the trial. Lawyers make you tell everything you know at trials, and a lot of lies besides.”

“There won’t be any trial,” said Gerald, kicking the leg of the piano thoughtfully.

“No trial?”

“It said in the paper,” Gerald went on slowly, “ ‘The miscreants must have received warning from a confederate, for the admirable preparations to arrest them as they returned for their ill-gotten plunder were unavailing. But the police have a clue.’ ”

“What a pity!” said Mabel.

“You needn’t worry—they haven’t got any old clue,” said Gerald, still attentive to the piano leg.

“I didn’t mean the clue; I meant the confederate.”

“It’s a pity you think he’s a pity, because he was me,” said Gerald, standing up and leaving the piano leg alone. He looked straight before him, as the boy on the burning deck may have looked.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “I know you’ll think I’m a criminal, but I couldn’t do it. I don’t know how detectives can. I went over a prison once, with father; and after I’d given the tip to Johnson I remembered that, and I just couldn’t. I know I’m a beast, and not worthy to be a British citizen.”

“I think it was rather nice of you,” said Mabel kindly. “How did you warn them?”

“I just shoved a paper under the man’s door—the one that I knew where he lived—to tell him to lie low.”

“Oh! do tell me—what did you put on it exactly?” Mabel warmed to this new interest.

“It said: ‘The police know all except your names. Be virtuous and you are safe. But if there’s any more burgling I shall split and you may rely on that from a friend.’ I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. Don’t tell the others. They wouldn’t understand why I did it. I don’t understand it myself.”

“I do,” said Mabel: “it’s because you’ve got a kind and noble heart.”

“Kind fiddlestick, my good child!” said Gerald, suddenly losing the burning boy expression and becoming in a flash entirely himself. “Cut along and wash your hands; you’re as black as ink.”

“So are you,” said Mabel, “and I’m not. It’s dye with me. Auntie was dyeing a blouse this morning. It told you how in Home Drivel—and she’s as black as ink too, and the blouse is all streaky. Pity the ring won’t make just parts of you invisible—the dirt, for instance.”

“Perhaps,” Gerald said unexpectedly, “it won’t make even all of you invisible again.”

“Why not? You haven’t been doing anything to it—have you?” Mabel sharply asked.

“No; but didn’t you notice you were invisible twenty-one hours, I was fourteen hours invisible, and Eliza only seven—that’s seven less each time. And now we’ve come to—”

“How frightfully good you are at sums!” said Mabel, awe-struck.

“You see, it’s got seven hours less each time, and seven from seven is nought; it’s got to be something different this time. And then afterwards—it can’t be minus seven, because I don’t see how—unless it made you more visible—thicker, you know.”

“Don’t!” said Mabel; “you make my head go round.”

“And there’s another odd thing,” Gerald went on; “when you’re invisible your relations don’t love you. Look at your aunt, and Cathy never turning a hair at me going burgling. We haven’t got to the bottom of that ring yet. Crikey! here’s Mademoiselle with the cakes. Run, bold bandits—wash for your lives!”

They ran.

It was not cakes only; it was plums and grapes and jam tarts and soda-water and raspberry vinegar, and chocolates in pretty boxes and “pure, thick, rich” cream in brown jugs, also a big bunch of roses. Mademoiselle was strangely merry, for a governess. She served out the cakes and tarts with a liberal hand, made wreaths of the flowers for all their heads—she was not eating much herself—drank the health of Mabel, as the guest of the day, in the beautiful pink drink that comes from mixing raspberry vinegar and soda-water, and actually persuaded Jimmy to wear his wreath, on the ground that the Greek gods as well as the goddesses always wore wreaths at a feast.

There never was such a feast provided by any French governess since French governesses began. There were jokes and stories and laughter. Jimmy showed all those tricks with forks and corks and matches and apples which are so deservedly popular. Mademoiselle told them stories of her own schooldays when she was “a quite little girl with two tight tresses—so,” and when they could not understand the tresses, called for paper and pencil and drew the loveliest little picture of herself when she was a child with two short fat pig-tails sticking out from her head like knitting-needles from a ball of dark worsted. Then she drew pictures of everything they asked for, till Mabel pulled Gerald’s jacket and whispered: “The acting!”

“Draw us the front of a theatre,” said Gerald tactfully, “a French theatre.”

“They are the same thing as the English theatres,” Mademoiselle told him.

“Do you like acting—the theatre, I mean?”

“But yes—I love it.”

“All right,” said Gerald briefly. “We’ll act a play for you—now—this afternoon if you like.”

“Eliza will be washing up,” Cathy whispered, “and she was promised to see it.”

“Or this evening,” said Gerald “and please, Mademoiselle, may Eliza come in and look on?”

“But certainly,” said Mademoiselle; “amuse yourselves well, my children.”

“But it’s you,” said Mabel suddenly, “that we want to amuse. Because we love you very much—don’t we, all of you?”

“Yes,” the chorus came unhesitatingly. Though the others would never have thought of saying such a thing on their own account. Yet, as Mabel said it, they found to their surprise that it was true.

“Tiens!”^ea said Mademoiselle, “you love the old French governess? Impossible,” and she spoke rather indistinctly.

“You’re not old,” said Mabel; “at least not so very,” she added brightly, “and you’re as lovely as a Princess.”

“Go then, flatteress!” said Mademoiselle, laughing; and Mabel went. The others were already half-way up the stairs.

Mademoiselle sat in the drawing-room as usual, and it was a good thing that she was not engaged in serious study, for it seemed that the door opened and shut almost ceaselessly all throughout the afternoon. Might they have the embroidered antimacassars and the sofa cushions? Might they have the clothes-line out of the wash-house? Eliza said they mightn’t, but might they? Might they have the sheepskin hearthrugs? Might they have tea in the garden, because they had almost got the stage ready in the dining-room, and Eliza wanted to set tea? Could Mademoiselle lend them any coloured clothes—scarves or dressing-gowns, or anything bright? Yes, Mademoiselle could, and did—silk things, surprisingly lovely for a governess to have. Had Mademoiselle any rouge? They had always heard that French ladies—No. Mademoiselle hadn’t—and to judge by the colour of her face, Mademoiselle didn’t need it. Did Mademoiselle think the chemist sold rouge—or had she any false hair to spare? At this challenge Mademoiselle’s pale fingers pulled out a dozen hairpins, and down came the loveliest blue-black hair, hanging to her knees in straight, heavy lines.

Down came the loveliest blue-black hair

“No, you terrible infants,” she cried. “I have not the false hair, nor the rouge. And my teeth—you want them also, without doubt?”

She showed them in a laugh.

“I said you were a Princess,” said Mabel, “and now I know. You’re Rapunzel. Do always wear your hair like that! May we have the peacock fans, please, off the mantelpiece, and the things that loop back the curtains, and all the handkerchiefs you’ve got?”

Mademoiselle denied them nothing. They had the fans and the handkerchiefs and some large sheets of expensive drawing-paper out of the school cupboard, and Mademoiselle’s best sable paint-brush and her paint-box.

“Who would have thought,” murmured Gerald, pensively sucking the brush and gazing at the paper mask he had just painted, “that she was such a brick in disguise? I wonder why crimson lake always tastes just like Liebig’s Extract.”^eb

Everything was pleasant that day somehow. There are some days like that, you know, when everything goes well from the very beginning; all the things you want are in their places, nobody misunderstands you, and all that you do turns out admirably. How different from those other days which we all know too well, when your shoelace breaks, your comb is mislaid, your brush spins on its back on the floor and lands under the bed where you can’t get at it—you drop the soap, your buttons come off, an eyelash gets into your eye, you have used your last clean handkerchief, your collar is frayed at the edge and cuts your neck, and at the very last moment your suspender breaks, and there is no string. On such a day as this you are naturally late for breakfast, and everyone thinks you did it on purpose. And the day goes on and on, getting worse and worse—you mislay your exercise-book, you drop your arithmetic in the mud, your pencil breaks, and when you open your knife to sharpen the pencil you split your nail. On such a day you jam your thumb in doors, and muddle the messages you are sent on by grown-ups. You upset your tea, and your bread-and-butter won’t hold together for a moment. And when at last you get to bed—usually in disgrace—it is no comfort at all to you to know that not a single bit of it is your own fault.

This day was not one of those days, as you will have noticed. Even the tea in the garden—there was a bricked bit by a rockery that made a steady floor for the tea-table—was most delightful, though the thoughts of four out of the five were busy with the coming play, and the fifth had thoughts of her own that had had nothing to do with tea or acting.

Then there was an interval of slamming doors, interesting silences, feet that flew up and down stairs.

It was still good daylight when the dinner-bell rang—the signal had been agreed upon at tea-time, and carefully explained to Eliza. Mademoiselle laid down her book and passed out of the sunset-yellowed hall into the faint yellow gaslight of the dining-room. The giggling Eliza held the door open before her, and followed her in. The shutters had been closed—streaks of daylight showed above and below them. The green-and-black tablecloths of the school dining-tables were supported on the clothes-line from the backyard. The line sagged in a graceful curve, but it answered its purpose of supporting the curtains which concealed that part of the room which was the stage.

Rows of chairs had been placed across the other end of the room—all the chairs in the house, as it seemed—and Mademoiselle started violently when she saw that fully half a dozen of these chairs were occupied. And by the queerest people, too: an old woman with a poke bonnet^ec tied under her chin with a red handkerchief, a lady in a large straw hat wreathed in flowers and the oddest hands that stuck out over the chair in front of her, several men with strange, clumsy figures, and all with hats on.

“But,” whispered Mademoiselle, through the chinks of the tablecloths, “you have then invited other friends? You should have asked me, my children.”

Laughter and something like a “hurrah” answered her from behind the folds of the curtaining tablecloths.

“All right, Mademoiselle Rapunzel,” cried Mabel; “turn the gas up. It’s only part of the entertainment.”

Eliza, still giggling, pushed through the lines of chairs, knocking off the hat of one of the visitors as she did so, and turned up the three incandescent burners.

Fully half a dozen of these chairs were occupied

Mademoiselle looked at the figure seated nearest to her, stooped to look more closely, half laughed, quite screamed, and sat down suddenly.

“Oh!” she cried, “they are not alive!”

Eliza, with a much louder scream, had found out the same thing and announced it differently. “They ain’t got no insides,” said she. The seven members of the audience seated among the wilderness of chairs had, indeed, no insides to speak of. Their bodies were bolsters and rolled-up blankets, their spines were broom-handles, and their arm and leg bones were hockey sticks and umbrellas. Their shoulders were the wooden crosspieces that Mademoiselle used for keeping her jackets in shape; their hands were gloves stuffed out with handkerchiefs; and their faces were the paper masks painted in the afternoon by the untutored brush of Gerald, tied on to the round heads made of the ends of stuffed bolster-cases. The faces were really rather dreadful. Gerald had done his best, but even after his best had been done you would hardly have known they were faces, some of them, if they hadn’t been in the positions which faces usually occupy, between the collar and the hat. Their eyebrows were furious with lamp-black frowns—their eyes the size, and almost the shape, of five-shilling pieces, and on their lips and cheeks had been spent much crimson lake and nearly the whole of a half-pan of vermilion.

“You have made yourself an auditors, yes? Bravo!” cried Mademoiselle, recovering herself and beginning to clap. And to the sound of that clapping the curtain went up—or, rather, apart. A voice said, in a breathless, choked way, “Beauty and the Beast,” and the stage was revealed.

It was a real stage too—the dining-tables pushed close together and covered with pink-and-white counterpanes. It was a little unsteady and creaky to walk on, but very imposing to look at. The scene was simple, but convincing. A big sheet of cardboard, bent square, with slits cut in it and a candle behind, represented, quite transparently, the domestic hearth; a round hat-tin of Eliza’s, supported on a stool with a night-light under it, could not have been mistaken, save by wilful malice, for anything but a copper. A waste-paper basket with two or three school dusters and an overcoat in it, and a pair of blue pyjamas over the back of a chair, put the finishing touch to the scene. It did not need the announcement from the wings, “The laundry at Beauty’s home.” It was so plainly a laundry and nothing else.

In the wings: “They look just like a real audience, don’t they?” whispered Mabel. “Go on, Jimmy—don’t forget the Merchant has to be pompous and use long words.”

Jimmy, enlarged by pillows under Gerald’s best overcoat which had been intentionally bought with a view to his probable growth during the two years which it was intended to last him, a Turkish towel turban on his head and an open umbrella over it, opened the first act in a simple and swift soliloquy:

“I am the most unlucky merchant that ever was. I was once the richest merchant in Bagdad, but I lost all my ships, and now I live in a poor house that is all to bits; you can see how the rain comes through the roof, and my daughters take in washing. And—”

The pause might have seemed long, but Gerald rustled in, elegant in Mademoiselle’s pink dressing-gown and the character of the eldest daughter.

“A nice drying day,” he minced. “Pa dear, put the umbrella the other way up. It’ll save us going out in the rain to fetch water. Come on, sisters, dear father’s got us a new wash-tub. Here’s luxury!”

Round the umbrella, now held the wrong way up, the three sisters knelt and washed imaginary linen. Kathleen wore a violet skirt of Eliza’s, a blue blouse of her own, and a cap of knotted handkerchiefs. A white nightdress girt with a white apron and two red carnations in Mabel’s black hair left no doubt as to which of the three was Beauty.

The scene went very well. The final dance with waving towels was all that there is of charming, Mademoiselle said; and Eliza was so much amused that, as she said, she got quite a nasty stitch along of laughing so hearty.

You know pretty well what Beauty and the Beast would be like acted by four children who had spent the afternoon in arranging their costumes and so had left no time for rehearsing what they had to say. Yet it delighted them, and it charmed their audience. And what more can any play do, even Shakespeare’s? Mabel, in her Princess clothes, was a resplendent Beauty; and Gerald a Beast who wore the drawing-room hearthrugs with an air of indescribable distinction. If Jimmy was not a talkative merchant, he made it up with a stoutness practically unlimited, and Kathleen surprised and delighted even herself by the quickness with which she changed from one to the other of the minor characters—fairies, servants, and messengers. It was at the end of the second act that Mabel, whose costume, having reached the height of elegance, could not be bettered and therefore did not need to be changed, said to Gerald, sweltering under the weighty magnificence of his beast-skin:

“I say, you might let us have the ring back.”

“I’m going to,” said Gerald, who had quite forgotten it. “I’ll give it you in the next scene. Only don’t lose it, or go putting it on. You might go out all together and never be seen again, or you might get seven times as visible as anyone else, so that all the rest of us would look like shadows beside you, you’d be so thick, or—”

“Ready!” said Kathleen, bustling in, once more a wicked sister.

Gerald managed to get his hand into his pocket under his hearthrug, and when he rolled his eyes in agonies of sentiment, and said, “Farewell, dear Beauty! Return quickly, for if you remain long absent from your faithful beast he will assuredly perish,” he pressed a ring into her hand and added: “This is a magic ring that will give you anything you wish. When you desire to return to your own disinterested beast, put on the ring and utter your wish. Instantly you will be by my side.”

Beauty-Mabel took the ring, and it was the ring.

The curtains closed to warm applause from two pairs of hands.

The next scene went splendidly. The sisters were almost too natural in their disagreeableness, and Beauty’s annoyance when they splashed her Princess’s dress with real soap and water was considered a miracle of good acting. Even the merchant rose to something more than mere pillows, and the curtain fell on his pathetic assurance that in the absence of his dear Beauty he was wasting away to a shadow. And again two pairs of hands applauded.

“Here, Mabel, catch hold,” Gerald appealed from under the weight of a towel-horse,^ed the tea-urn, the tea-tray, and the green baize apron of the boot boy, which together with four red geraniums from the landing, the pampas-grass from the drawing-room fireplace, and the india rubber plants from the drawing-room window were to represent the fountains and garden of the last act. The applause had died away.

“I wish,” said Mabel, taking on herself the weight of the tea-urn, “I wish those creatures we made were alive. We should get something like applause then.”

“I’m jolly glad they aren’t,” said Gerald, arranging the baize and the towel-horse. Brutes! It makes me feel quite silly when I catch their paper eyes.”

The curtains were drawn back. There lay the hearthrug-coated beast, in flat abandonment among the tropic beauties of the garden, the pampas-grass shrubbery, the india rubber plant bushes, the geranium-trees and the urn fountain. Beauty was ready to make her great entry in all the thrilling splendour of despair. And then suddenly it all happened.

Mademoiselle began it: she applauded the garden scene—with hurried little clappings of her quick French hands. Eliza’s fat red palms followed heavily, and then—someone else was clapping, six or seven people, and their clapping made a dull padded sound. Nine faces instead of two were turned towards the stage, and seven out of the nine were painted, pointed paper faces. And every hand and every face was alive. The applause grew louder as Mabel glided forward, and as she paused and looked at the audience her unstudied pose of horror and amazement drew forth applause louder still; but it was not loud enough to drown the shrieks of Mademoiselle and Eliza as they rushed from the room, knocking chairs over and crushing each other in the doorway. Two distant doors banged, Mademoiselle’s door and Eliza’s door.

“Curtain! curtain! quick!” cried Beauty-Mabel, in a voice that wasn’t Mabel’s or the Beauty’s. “Jerry—those things have come alive. Oh, whatever shall we do?”

Gerald in his hearthrugs leaped to his feet. Again that flat padded applause marked the swish of cloths on clothes-line as Jimmy and Kathleen drew the curtains.

“What’s up?” they asked as they drew.

“You’ve done it this time!” said Gerald to the pink, perspiring Mabel. “Oh, bother these strings!”

“Can’t you burst them? I’ve done it?” retorted Mabel. “I like that!”

“More than I do,” said Gerald.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Mabel. “Come on. We must go and pull the things to pieces—then they can’t go on being alive.”

“It’s your fault, anyhow,” said Gerald with every possible absence of gallantry. “Don’t you see? It’s turned into a wishing ring. I knew something different was going to happen. Get my knife out of my pocket—this string’s in a knot. Jimmy, Cathy, those Ugly-Wuglies have come alive—because Mabel wished it. Cut out and pull them to pieces.”

A limp hand gesticulated

Jimmy and Cathy peeped through the curtain and recoiled with white faces and staring eyes. “Not me!” was the brief rejoinder of Jimmy. Cathy said, “Not much!” And she meant it, anyone could see that.

And now, as Gerald, almost free of the hearthrugs, broke his thumb-nail on the stiffest blade of his knife, a thick rustling and a sharp, heavy stumping sounded beyond the curtain.

“They’re going out!” screamed Kathleen—“walking out—on their umbrella and broomstick legs. You can’t stop them, Jerry, they’re too awful! ”

“Everybody in the town’ll be insane by tomorrow night if we don’t stop them,” cried Gerald. “Here, give me the ring—I’ll unwish them.”

He caught the ring from the unresisting Mabel, cried, “I wish the Uglies weren’t alive,” and tore through the door. He saw, in fancy, Mabel’s wish undone, and the empty hall strewed with limp bolsters, ^ee hats, umbrellas, coats and gloves, prone abject properties from which the brief life had gone out for ever. But the hall was crowded with live things, strange things—all horribly short as broom sticks and umbrellas are short. A limp hand gesticulated. A pointed white face with red cheeks looked up at him, and wide red lips said something, he could not tell what. The voice reminded him of the old beggar down by the bridge who had no roof to his mouth. These creatures had no roofs to their mouths, of course—they had no—

“Aa oo re o me me oo a oo ho el?” said the voice again. And it had said it four times before Gerald could collect himself sufficiently to understand that this horror—alive, and most likely quite uncontrollable—was saying, with a dreadful calm, polite persistence:

“Can you recommend me to a good hotel?”

CHAPTER VII

Can you recommend me to a good hotel?” The speaker had no inside to his head. Gerald had the best of reasons for knowing it. The speaker’s coat had no shoulders inside it—only the cross-bar that a jacket is slung on by careful ladies. The hand raised in interrogation was not a hand at all; it was a glove lumpily stuffed with pocket-handkerchiefs; and the arm attached to it was only Kathleen’s school umbrella. Yet the whole thing was alive, and was asking a definite, and for anybody else, anybody who really was a body, a reasonable question.