“Rotten!” said Archie.

“I did think that for once my guardian angel had gone back to work and was doing something for me.  ‘Stage Star and Midnight Marauder,’” murmured Miss Silverton, wistfully. “’Footlight Favourite Foils Felon.’”

“Bit thick!” agreed Archie, sympathetically.  “Well, you’ll probably be wanting to get to bed and all that sort of rot, so I may as well be popping, what!  Cheerio!”

A sudden gleam came into Miss Silverton’s compelling eyes.

“Wait!”

“Eh?”

“Wait!  I’ve got an idea!” The wistful sadness had gone from her manner.  She was bright and alert.  “Sit down!”

“Sit down?”

“Sure.  Sit down and take the chill off the arm-chair.  I’ve thought of something.”

Archie sat down as directed.  At his elbow the bulldog eyed him gravely from the basket.

“Do they know you in this hotel?”

“Know me?  Well, I’ve been here about a week.”

“I mean, do they know who you are?  Do they know you’re a good citizen?”

“Well, if it comes to that, I suppose they don’t.  But—­”

“Fine!” said Miss Silverton, appreciatively.  “Then it’s all right.  We can carry on!”

“Carry on!”

“Why, sure!  All I want is to get the thing into the papers.  It doesn’t matter to me if it turns out later that there was a mistake and that you weren’t a burglar trying for my jewels after all.  It makes just as good a story either way.  I can’t think why that never struck me before.  Here have I been kicking because you weren’t a real burglar, when it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans whether you are or not.  All I’ve got to do is to rush out and yell and rouse the hotel, and they come in and pinch you, and I give the story to the papers, and everything’s fine!”

Archie leaped from his chair.

“I say!  What!”

“What’s on your mind?” enquired Miss Silverton, considerately.  “Don’t you think it’s a nifty scheme?”

“Nifty!  My dear old soul!  It’s frightful!”

“Can’t see what’s wrong with it,” grumbled Miss Silverton.  “After I’ve had someone get New York on the long-distance ’phone and give the story to the papers you can explain, and they’ll let you out.  Surely to goodness you don’t object, as a personal favour to me, to spending an hour or two in a cell?  Why, probably they haven’t got a prison at all out in these parts, and you’ll simply be locked in a room.  A child of ten could do it on his head,” said Miss Silverton.  “A child of six,” she emended.

“But, dash it—­I mean—­what I mean to say—­I’m married!”

“Yes?” said Miss Silverton, with the politeness of faint interest.  “I’ve been married myself.  I wouldn’t say it’s altogether a bad thing, mind you, for those that like it, but a little of it goes a long way.  My first husband,” she proceeded, reminiscently, “was a travelling man.  I gave him a two-weeks’ try-out, and then I told him to go on travelling.  My second husband—­now, he wasn’t a gentleman in any sense of the word.  I remember once—­”