lieved me. She looked from my swollen head to
the open bag, and then to Wardrop's pale face. Then I think, woman-like,
she remembered the two great braids that hung over her shoulders and
the dressing-gown she wore, for she backed precipitately into the hall.

"I'm glad that's all it is," she called back cautiously, and we could
hear her running up the stairs.

"You'd better go to bed," Wardrop said, picking up his hat. "I'm going
down to the station. There's no train out of here between midnight and a
flag train at four-thirty A. M. It's not likely to be of any use, but I
want to see who goes on that train."

"It is only half past two," I said, glancing at my watch. "We might look
around outside first."

The necessity for action made him welcome any suggestion. Reticent as he
was, his feverish excitement made me think that something vital hung on
the recovery of the contents of that Russia leather bag. We found a
lantern somewhere in the back of the house, and together we went over
the grounds. It did not take long, and we found nothing.

As I look back on that night, the key to what had passed and to much
that was coming was so simple, so direct--and yet we missed it entirely.
Nor, when bigger things developed, and Hunter's trained senses were
brought into play, did he do much better. It was some time before we
learned the true inwardness of the events of that night.

At five o'clock in the morning Wardrop came back exhausted and
nerveless. No one had taken the four-thirty; the contents of the bag
were gone, probably beyond recall. I put my dented candlestick back on
the mantel, and prepared for a little sleep, blessing the deafness of
old age which had enabled the Maitland ladies to sleep through it all. I
tried to forget the queer events of the night, but the throbbing of my
head kept me awake, and through it all one question obtruded itself--who
had unlocked the front door and left it open?

CHAPTER V

LITTLE MISS JANE

I was almost unrecognizable when I looked at myself in the mirror the
next morning, preparatory to dressing for breakfast. My nose boasted a
new arch, like the back of an angry cat, making my profile Roman and
ferocious, and the lump on my forehead from the chair was swollen,
glassy and purple. I turned my back to the mirror and dressed in
wrathful irritation and my yesterday's linen.

Miss Fleming was in the breakfast-room when I got down, standing at a
window, her back to me. I