ing himself what he called a Bernard Shaw--a foundation
of brandy and soda, with a little of everything else in sight to give it
snap. Now that I saw him clearly, he looked weary and grimy. I hated to
tell him what I knew he was waiting to hear, but there was no use wading
in by inches. I ducked and got it over.

"The notes are gone, Rich," I said, as quietly as I could. In spite of
himself his face fell.

"I--of course I expected it," he said. "But--Mrs. Klopton said over the
telephone that you had brought home a grip and I hoped--well, Lord knows
we ought not to complain. You're here, damaged, but here." He lifted his
glass. "Happy days, old man!"

"If you will give me that black bottle and a teaspoon, I'll drink that
in arnica, or whatever the stuff is; Rich,--the notes were gone before
the wreck!"

He wheeled and stared at me, the bottle in his hand. "Lost, strayed or
stolen?" he queried with forced lightness.

"Stolen, although I believe the theft was incidental to something else."

Mrs. Klopton came in at that moment, with an eggnog in her hand. She
glanced at the clock, and, without addressing any one in particular, she
intimated that it was time for self-respecting folks to be at home in
bed. McKnight, who could never resist a fling at her back, spoke to me
in a stage whisper.

"Is she talking still? or again?" he asked, just before the door closed.
There was a second's indecision with the knob, then, judging discretion
the better part, Mrs. Klopton went away.

"Now, then," McKnight said, settling himself in a chair beside the
bed, "spit it out. Not the wreck--I know all I want about that. But the
theft. I can tell you beforehand that it was a woman."

I had crawled painfully out of bed, and was in the act of pouring the
egg-nog down the pipe of the washstand. I paused, with the glass in the
air.

"A woman!" I repeated, startled. "What makes you think that?"

"You don't know the first principles of a good detective yarn," he said
scornfully. "Of course, it was the woman in the empty house next door.
You said it was brass pipes, you will remember. Well--on with the dance:
let joy be unconfined."

So I told the story; I had told it so many times that day that I did it
automatically. And I told about the girl with the bronze hair, and my
suspicions. But I did not mention Alison West. McKnight listened to the
end without interruption. When I had finished he drew a long breath.

"Well!" he said. "That