ne was hurt." I was still
holding her close in my arms. "God bless you!" I whispered at her ear.
And then--

Well, even the exigencies of a memoir do not require that I should set
down what occurred then. Genevieve, her cheeks aflame, broke from my
embrace and ran out of the room. I heard her light steps upon the
stairs, and then the door to the room which had come near being the
scene of a tragedy, opened and closed.

CHAPTER XX

GENEVIEVE'S MISSION

Almost at once a summons came from the up-stairs room for Miss Belle's
maid. The rest of the servants were dismissed, and Genevieve signalled
over the balusters for me to wait.

A very old man, cheerfully garrulous, who announced that he was the
butler, took me downstairs.

"The drawing-room--living-room--or if you're of a mind to smoke, sir,
Mr. Fluette's study." He indicated each of the rooms mentioned with a
little flourish of the hand.

Although I am not a smoker, the word "study" arrested my attention. I
indicated my preference. The old man instantly clapped a hand to one
ear, and, leaning toward me, shouted into my face, "Hey?" So I decided
the matter for myself by striding down the hall to where a door stood
invitingly open.

Now perhaps you may consider it to have been the first duty of a
traditional detective to take advantage of this opportunity, and
perhaps you may be right. However, I believe I can assert, with some
measure of authority, that a man in my profession may be a man of
principle and honor and still succeed. I believe I may go even
further: honest, straightforward conduct and upright dealing, by
winning the confidence and respect of those with whom he holds
intercourse, will carry a detective farther along the road to success
in a given undertaking than any other means he may adopt. Honesty, in
my calling as in all others, is the best policy.

But there are certain subtle impressions, often difficult to define,
which are more potent than foot-prints and thumb-marks. A man's words,
for example, are often of far less importance than his manner of
uttering them. A man's personality is the stamp by which he declares
his status among his fellows, and everybody is entitled to scan it that
he may weigh and consider and judge. Hence a man's surroundings bear a
thousand tokens of his character; for him to try to obliterate them, to
keep them hid, is not to be frank and open, and that in itself invites
suspicion.

My sole ob