Mr. Prohack paused, collecting himself, determined to keep his nerve through everything.  Then he said: 

“When did the mysterious young lady borrow the keys from you?”

“Last night, sir, I mean the night before last.”

“And where are the keys now?”

“Milcher’s got ’em, sir.  I lay he’s up in the tower by this time, a-worrying over that clock.  It’ll be in the papers—­you see if it isn’t, sir.”

“And he’s got no idea that you ever lent the keys?”

“That he has not, sir.  And the question is:  must I tell him?”

“What exactly are the relations between you and Mr. Milcher?”

“Well, sir, he’s a bit dotty about me, as you might say.  And he’s going to marry me.  So he says, and I believe him.”

And Mr. Prohack reflected, impressed by the wonder of existence: 

“This woman too has charm for somebody, who looks on her as the most appetising morsel on earth.”

“Now,” he said aloud, “you are good enough to ask my opinion whether you ought to tell Mr. Milcher.  My advice to you is:  Don’t.  I applaud your conversion.  But as you say, a promise is a promise—­even if it’s a naughty promise.  You did wrong to promise.  You will suffer for that, and don’t think your conversion will save you from suffering, because it won’t.  Don’t run away with the idea that conversion is a patent-medicine.  It isn’t.  It’s rather a queer thing, very handy in some ways and very awkward in others, and you must use it with commonsense or you’ll get both yourself and other people into trouble.  As for the clock, it’s stopping striking is only a coincidence, obviously.  Abandon the word ‘Bolshevik.’  It’s a very overworked word, and wants a long repose.  If the clock had been stopped from striking by your young friends it would have stopped the evening before last, when they went up the tower.  And don’t imagine there’s any snub-nosed young lady living here.  There isn’t.  She must have left while you were down among the dustbins, Mrs. Milcher—­that is to be.  She paid you something for your trouble, quite possibly.  If so, give the money to the poor.  That will be the best way to be converted.”

“So I will, sir.”

“Yes.  And now you must go.”  He unlocked the door and opened it.  “Quick.  Quietly.  Into the area, and up the area-steps.  And stop a moment.  Don’t you be seen in the Square for at least a year.  A big robbery was committed in this very house last night.  You’ll see it in to-day’s papers.  My butler connected your presence in the area—­and quite justifiably connected it—­with the robbery.  Without knowing it you’ve been in the most dreadful danger.  I’m saving you.  If you don’t use your conversion with discretion it may land you in prison.  Take my advice, and be silent first and converted afterwards.  Good morning.  Tut-tut!” He stopped the outflow of her alarmed gratitude.  “Didn’t I advise you to be silent?  Creep, Mrs. Milcher.  Creep!”