Sergeant Higgins had had a trying evening. The cellar of the north tower is very nearly beneath the ballroom, and he sat there, angry and perplexed, listening to the clamour of music overhead. Disarmed, his gag was removed and he was given supper and a bottle of excellent vintage, but a couple of stout footmen made it plain that any attempt at escape or disturbance could mean the renewal of bonds and bandage. He had all the American doughboy's disgust at being shut out from any merrymaking in which the other sex participated; and through a small ventilator grating high in his prison he was teased by feminine laughters and light whisperings on the terrace. But philosophy and fatigue presently overcame indignation. He helped himself to an extra bottle of the Burgundy
