om which I
argue that Pierrette likes to pose and Babette enjoys painting her. We
mustn't let this affect the general illusion. The next turn of the road
will doubtless bring us to something that can't be explained so easily."

"If it doesn't bring us to Pierrette--" began Deering.

"Tut! None of that! For all you know it may bring us to something
infinitely better. Remember that this is mid-May, and anything may happen
before June kindles the crimson ramblers. Let us be off."

Half-way across the living-room Deering stopped suddenly.

"My bag--my suitcase!" he shouted.

A suitcase it was beyond question, placed near the door as though to
arrest their attention. Deering pounced upon it eagerly and flung it
open.

"It's all right--the stuff's here!" he cried huskily.

He began throwing out the packets that filled the case, glancing
hurriedly at the seals. Hood lounged near, watching him languidly.

"Most unfortunate," he remarked, noting the growing satisfaction on
Deering's face as he continued his examination. "Now that you've found
that rubbish, I suppose there'll be no holding you; you'll go back to
listen to the ticker just when I had begun to have some hope of you!"

"It was Pierrette that took it; it couldn't have been this artist girl,"
said Deering, excitedly whipping out his penknife and slitting one of the
packages. A sheaf of blank wrapping-paper fluttered to the floor. His
face whitened and he gave a cry of dismay. "Robbed! Tricked!" he groaned,
staring at Hood.

Hood picked up the paper and scrutinized the seal.

"S. J. Deering, personal," he read in the wax. "You don't suppose that
girl has taken the trouble to forge your father's private seal, do you?"

Deering feverishly tore open the other packages.

"All alike; the stuff's gone!"

Perspiration beaded his forehead. He stared stupidly at the worthless
paper.

"You ought to be grateful, son," said Hood; "yesterday you thought
yourself a thief--now that load's off your mind, and you know yourself
for an honest man. General rejoicing seems to be in order. Looks as
though your parent had robbed himself--rather a piquant situation, I must
say."

He carried the wrappers to the window-seat and examined them more
closely.

"Seals were all intact. 'The Tyringham estate,'" he read musingly. "What
do you make of that?" he asked Deering, who remained crumpled on the
floor beside the suitcase.

"That's an estate father was executor of--it's a l