emergency."

The doctor smiled confidently.

"We look there for our criminal," he said. "Nothing hides from the
chronoscope. Now then, 'staircase--scar.' Isn't that significant? The
association is clear: a scar that is vivid enough, disfiguring enough,
to be the first thing that enters his mind."

"Schwartz!" Burton said with awe. "Doctor, what on earth does 'eleven
twenty-two C' mean?"

"I think that is up to you, gentlemen. The C belongs there, without
doubt. Briefly, looking over these slips, I make it something like this:
Wardrop thinks a woman took his traveling-bag. Three times he gave the
word 'letters,' in response to 'gate,' 'guest' and 'money.' Did he have
a guest at the time all this happened at Bellwood?"

"I was a guest in the house at the time."

"Did you offer him money for letters?"

"No."

"Did he give you any letters to keep for him?"

"He gave me the bag that was substituted for his."

"Locked?"

"Yes. By Jove, I wonder if there is anything in it? I have reason to
know that he came into my room that night at least once after I went
asleep."

"I think it very likely," he said dryly. "One thing we have not touched
on, and I believe Mr. Wardrop knows nothing of it. That is, the
disappearance of the old lady. There is a psychological study for you!
My conclusion? Well, I should say that Mr. Wardrop is not guilty of the
murder. He knows, or thinks he knows, who is. He has a theory of his
own, about some one with a scar: it may be only a theory. He does not
necessarily know, but he hopes. He is in a state of abject fear. Also,
he is hiding something concerning letters, and from the word 'money' in
that connection, I believe he either sold or bought some damaging
papers. He is not a criminal, but he is what is almost worse."

The doctor rose and picked up his hat. "He is a weakling," he said, from
the doorway.

Burton looked at his watch. "By George!" he said. "Seven-twenty, and
I've had nothing since lunch but a box of sardines. I'm off to chase the
festive mutton chop. Oh, by the way, Knox, where is that locked bag?"

"In my office safe."

"I'll drop around in the morning and assist you to compound a felony,"
he said easily. But as it happened, he did not.

CHAPTER XXI

A PROSCENIUM BOX

I was very late for dinner. Fred and Edith were getting ready for a
concert, and the two semi-invalids were playing pinochle in Fred's den.
Neither one looked much the worse for her previ