“I was only thinking of burglars;” said Mrs. Maldon apologetically.  “There’ve been so many burglaries lately—­” She ceased, uncertain of her voice.  The forced lightness of her tone was almost tragic.

“There won’t be any more,” said Mr. Batchgrew condescendingly.

“Why?” demanded Mrs. Maldon with an eager smile of hope.  “Have they caught them, then?  Has Superintendent Snow—­”

“They have their hands on them.  To-morrow there’ll be some arrests,” Mr. Batchgrew answered, exuding authority.  For he was not merely a Town Councillor, he was brother-in-law to the Superintendent of the Borough Police.  “Caught ’em long ago if th’ county police had been a bit more reliable!”

“Oh!” Mrs. Maldon breathed happily.  “I knew it couldn’t be Mr. Snow’s fault.  I felt sure of that.  I’m so glad.”

And Rachel also was conscious of gladness.  In fact, it suddenly seemed plain to both women that no burglar, certain of arrest on the morrow, would dare to invade the house of a lady whose trustee had married the sister of the Superintendent of Police.  The house was invisibly protected.

“And we mustn’t forget we shall have a man sleeping here to-night,” said Rachel confidently.

“Of course!  Of course!  I was quite overlooking that!” exclaimed Mrs. Maldon.

Mr. Batchgrew threw a curt and suspicious question—­“What man?”

“My nephew Julian—­I should say my grand-nephew.”  Mrs. Maldon’s proud tone rebuked the strange tone of Mr. Batchgrew.  “It is his birthday.  He and Louis are having supper with me.  And Julian is staying the night.”

“Well, if you take my advice, missis, ye’ll say nowt to nobody.  Lock the brass up in a drawer in that wardrobe of yours, and keep a still tongue in your head.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Mrs. Maldon agreed—­“as a matter of general principle, I mean.  And it might make Julian uneasy.”

“Take it and lock it up,” Mr. Batchgrew repeated.

“I don’t know about my wardrobe—­” Mrs. Maldon began.

“Anywhere!” Mr. Batchgrew stopped her.

“Only,” said Rachel with careful gentleness, “please don’t forget where you have put it.”

But her precaution of manner was futile.  Twice within a minute she had employed the word “forget.”  Twice was too often.  Mrs. Maldon’s memory was most capriciously uncertain.  Its lapses astonished sometimes even herself.  And naturally she was sensitive on the point.  She nourished the fiction, and she expected others to nourish it, that her memory was quite equal to younger memories.  Indeed, she would admit every symptom of old age save an unreliable memory.

Composing a dignified smile, she said with reproving blandness—­

“I am not in the habit of forgetting where I put valuables, Rachel.”

And her prominently veined fingers, clasping the notes as a preliminary to hiding them away, seemed in their nervous primness to be saying to Rachael:  “I have deep confidence in you, and I think that to-night I have shown it.  But oblige me by not presuming.  I am Mrs. Maldon and you are Rachel.  After all, I have not yet known you for a month.”