t for a stroll in the moonlight with the Skeptic. The
closet door, ajar, gave a glimpse of summer frocks, hanging in order on
padded hangers brought in a trunk; beneath, a row of incredibly small,
smart shoes stood awaiting their turn. Even the Gay Lady's trunk was
clad in a trim, beflowered cover of linen, and looked a part of the
place. I smiled to myself as I turned down the white sheets over my best
down-filled quilt of pale pink, and thought of the Gay Lady's delightful
custom of keeping her room swept and dusted without letting anybody know
when she did it.

* * * * *

I felt my way across Althea's room to light the lamp--there are no
electrics in my old country home. As I went in I stumbled over a rug
whose corner had been drawn into a bunch by the edge of a trunk which
had been pulled too far toward the middle of the room. I encountered
a chair hung full with clothing; I pushed what felt like a shoe out
of my path.

It took some time for me to find the match-box, which ordinarily
stands on a corner of the dressing-table. My groping hand encountered
all sorts of unfamiliar objects in its quest, and it was not without
a premonition of what I was about to see that I finally lit the lamp
and looked around me.

Well--of course she had unpacked hurriedly, as hurriedly dressed for
dinner, and she had been detained downstairs ever since. I should not
judge in haste. Doubtless in the morning she would put things to rights.
I removed a trunk-tray from the bed, hung up several frocks in the
closet, cleared away the rest of the belongings from the counterpane,
and arranged Althea's bed for the night. I did the rest of my work
quickly, and returned to lower the light.

It couldn't be--really, no--it couldn't be! There must be some other way
of accounting for those scratches on the hitherto spotless white wall,
now marred by five long, brown marks, where a match had been drawn again
and again before it struck into light!

It _couldn't_ have been Althea. Yet--those marks were never there
before. It was full daylight when my guest had arrived; she could have
had no need for artificial light. Wait--there lay a long, black object
on the white cover of the dressing-table--a curling iron!

In the hall I ran into the Skeptic.

"I beg your pardon," he cried under his breath. "I came up for her
scarf. She said it was just inside her door, on her trunk. May I go in?"

"I'll get it for you," sai