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It was about an hour and a half later that Dorinda knocked on what had been the nursery door. A voice said, “Come in!” and she had no sooner done so than she became aware that after a brief unhappy interlude as a schoolroom it had quite firmly reverted to being a nursery. All Marty’s clothes were airing in front of a fire, Marty was putting away his toys in a toy-cupboard, and a large, firm, buxom woman whom no one could have taken for anything but a nurse was sitting up to the table darning socks. The scene was peaceful in the extreme, but there was an underlying feeling that if anything broke the peace, Nurse would want to know the reason why. Dorinda knew all about nurses. She had had a very strict old-fashioned one herself in the days before so much of Aunt Mary’s money had been disposed of by the Wicked Uncle.

She said, “Good afternoon, Nurse,” very respectfully, and then explained that Mrs. Oakley had asked her to find out whether she had everything she wanted.

Nurse Mason inclined her head and said in a tone which was more non-belligerent than neutral that what she hadn’t got she would see about, thank you.

Marty stopped with a headless horse in his hand.

“Nannie says she never did see anything like the way my things is gone to rack an’ ruin.”

“That will be enough from you, Marty! You keep right on putting those toys away—and shocked I am to see the way they’ve been broke.”

Marty thrust the mutilated horse out of sight and turned round with a cheerful smile.

“I’ve been a very naughty boy since you’ve been away, haven’t I, Nannie?”

“You go on picking up your toys!”

With an armful of wreckage, Marty continued to discourse.

“I frowed her brooch out of the car”—he appealed to Dorinda for confirmation—“didn’t I? And I digged a pin into her leg to make it bleed. Did it bleed, Miss Brown?”

“I haven’t looked,” said Dorinda.

Nurse had fixed a penetrating eye upon the culprit.

“Then you say you’re sorry to Miss Brown this very minute! Digging pins into people to make them bleed—I never heard such a thing! More like naked heathen savages than a child brought up in any nursery of mine! Go and say you’re sorry at once!”

Marty dropped all the toys he had gathered, advanced two paces, clasped his hands in front of him, and recited in a rapid sing-song.

“I’m sorry I was a naughty boy and I won’t do it again.”

There was a little talk about the brooch, Nurse being much shocked on hearing that it had been a legacy from a great-grandmother, and Marty contributing a few facts about cairngorms and finishing up with,

“I frowed it as hard as shooting from a gun.”

“I don’t want to hear no more about it,” said Nurse with decision.

“And I frowed water out of the kettle on to Miss Cole, and she put on her coat and hat and went away.”

“That’s enough, Marty! If those toys aren’t back in ten minutes, you know what will happen.”

He bent strenuously to the task.

Dorinda turned to go, but just as she did so something caught her eye. When Marty dropped his armful it had really been more of a throw than a drop. The lighter things had scattered, amongst them a bent carte-de-visite photograph. Dorinda picked it up and started to straighten it out. At just what instant everything in her began a landslide, she didn’t know. She heard Nurse say sharply,

“Marty, wherever did you get that photograph from? Is it one of your mother’s?”

And she heard him say, “It comed out of a box.”

“What box did it come out of?”

“A box. And it was all crumpled up and stuck in underneaf.”

Dorinda heard the words, but she didn’t make anything of them. She was sliding much too fast. By making a simply tremendous effort she managed to say, “I’ll see it’s put back,” and she managed to get out of the room.

Her own room was just across the landing. When she had locked herself in she sat down on the bed and gazed in unbelieving horror at the crumpled photograph. There wasn’t any mistake. The name of the photographer was glaringly legible—“Charles Rowbecker and Son, Norwood.” It was the twin photograph of the one in Aunt Mary’s album. It was, incredibly but indisputably, a photograph of the Wicked Uncle.