“This is to give notice that I, George Benn, being of sound mind and body, have told Ned Travers to pretend to be a burglar at Mrs. Waters’s.  He ain’t a burglar, and I shall be outside all the time.  It’s all above-board and ship-shape.

     “(Signed) George Benn”

“Sound mind—­above-board—­ship-shape,” repeated a dazed voice.  “Where is he?”

“Out at the back,” replied Mr. Travers.  “If you go to the window you can see him.  Now, do put something round your shoulders, there’s a good girl.”

There was no reply, but a board creaked.  He waited for what seemed a long time, and then the board creaked again.

“Did you see him?” he inquired.

“I did,” was the sharp reply.  “You both ought to be ashamed of yourselves.  You ought to be punished.”

“There is a clothes-peg sticking into the back of my head,” remarked Mr. Travers.  “What are you going to do?”

There was no reply.

“What are you going to do?” repeated Mr. Travers, somewhat uneasily.  “You look too nice to do anything hard; leastways, so far as I can judge through this crack.”

There was a smothered exclamation, and then sounds of somebody moving hastily about the room and the swish of clothing hastily donned.

“You ought to have done it before,” commented the thoughtful Mr. Travers.  “It’s enough to give you your death of cold.”

“Mind your business,” said the voice, sharply.  “Now, if I let you out, will you promise to do exactly as I tell you?”

“Honour bright,” said Mr. Travers, fervently.

“I’m going to give Mr. Benn a lesson he won’t forget,” proceeded the other, grimly.  “I’m going to fire off this gun, and then run down and tell him I’ve killed you.”

“Eh?” said the amazed Mr. Travers.  “Oh, Lord!”

“H’sh!  Stop that laughing,” commanded the voice.  “He’ll hear you.  Be quiet!”

The key turned in the lock, and Mr. Travers, stepping forth, clapped his hand over his mouth and endeavoured to obey.  Mrs. Waters, stepping back with the gun ready, scrutinized him closely.

“Come on to the landing,” said Mr. Travers, eagerly.  “We don’t want anybody else to hear.  Fire into this.”

He snatched a patchwork rug from the floor and stuck it up against the balusters.  “You stay here,” said Mrs. Waters.  He nodded.

She pointed the gun at the hearth-rug, the walls shook with the explosion, and, with a shriek that set Mr. Travers’s teeth on edge, she rushed downstairs and, drawing back the bolts of the back door, tottered outside and into the arms of the agitated boatswain.

“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried.

“What—­what’s the matter?” gasped the boatswain.

The widow struggled in his arms.  “A burglar,” she said, in a tense whisper.  “But it’s all right; I’ve killed him.”

“Kill—­” stuttered the other.  “Kill——­Killed him?”