There was no sign of life about the house, yet Constance observed all
the caution she would have if it had been well guarded.

Quickly they advanced over the open space to the cottage, approaching
in the shadow as much as possible.

Tiptoeing over the porch, Constance tried a window, the window through
which had shown the tantalizing light. It was fastened.

Without hesitation she pulled out the long steel bar with the twisted
head, and began to insert the sharp end between the sashes.

"Aren't--you--afraid?" chattered her companion.

"No," she whispered, not looking up from her work. "You know, most
persons don't know enough about jimmies. Against them an ordinary door
lock or window catch is no protection at all. Why, with this jimmy,
even a woman can exert a pressure of a ton or so. Not one catch in a
thousand can stand it--certainly not this one."

Constance continued to work, muffling the lever as much as possible in
a piece of felt.

At last a quick wrench and the catch yielded.

The only thing wrong about it was the noise. There had been no wind, no
passing trolley, nothing to conceal it.

They shrank back into the shadow, and waited breathless. Had it been
heard? Would a window open presently and an alarm be sounded?

There was not a sound, save the rustle of the leaves in the night wind.

A few minutes later Constance carefully raised the lower sash and they
stepped softly into the house--once the house over which Anita Douglas
had been mistress.

Cautiously Constance pressed the button on a little pocket
storage-battery lamp and flashed it slowly about the room.

All was quiet in the library. The library table was disordered, as if
some one in great stress of mind had been working at it. Anita wondered
what had been the grim thoughts of the man as he pondered on the mass
of stuff, the tissue of falsehoods that the blackmailing detective had
handed to him at such great cost.

At last the cone of light rested on a little safe at the opposite end.

"There it is," whispered Anita, pointing, half afraid even of the soft
tones of her own voice.

Constance had pulled down all the shades quietly, and drew the curtains
tightly between the room and the foyer.

On the top of the safe she was pouring some of the powder in a neat
pile from one of the vials.

"What is that?" asked Anita, bending close to her ear.

"Some powdered metallic aluminum mixed with oxide of iron," whispered
Constance in retur