tracks in the dust of the floor, but they were not very
clearly outlined, and Sir Henry thought nothing could be made of them.

"It was awfully exciting. I went about behind the two men. Sir Henry
talked all the time. Mr. Meadows was quite as much interested, but he
didn't say anything. He seemed to say less as the thing went on.

"They went over everything--the ground outside and every inch of the
house. Then they put everybody out and sat down by a table in the room
where the footprints were.

"Sir Henry had been awfully careful. He had a big lens with which to
examine the marks of the bloody footprints. He was like a man on the
trail of a buried treasure. He shouted over everything, thrust his glass
into Mr. Meadows' hand and bade him verify what he had seen. His ardor
was infectious. I caught it myself.

"Mr. Meadows, in his quiet manner, was just as much concerned in
unraveling the thing as Sir Henry. I never had so wild a time in all
my life. Finally, when Sir Henry put everybody else out and closed the
door, and the three of us sat down at the table to try to untangle the
thing, I very nearly screamed with excitement. Mr. Meadows sat with
his arms folded, not saying a word; but Sir Henry went ahead with his
explanation."

The girl looked like a vivid portrait, the soft colors of her gown and
all the cool, vivid extravagancies of youth distinguished in her. Her
words indicated fervor and excited energy; but they were not evidenced
in her face or manner. She was cool and lovely. One would have thought
that she recounted the inanities of a curate's tea party.

The aged man, in the khaki uniform of a major of yeomanry, remained in
his position at the window. The old woman sat with her implacable face,
unchanging like a thing insensible and inorganic.

This unsympathetic aspect about the girl did not seem to disturb her.
She went on:

"The thing was thrilling. It was better than any theater--the three of
us at the old mahogany table in the room, and the Scotland Yard patrol
outside.

"Sir Henry was bubbling over with his theory. 'I read this riddle like a
printed page,' he said. 'It will be the work of a little band of expert
cracksmen that the Continent has kindly sent us. We have had some
samples of their work in Brompton Road. They are professional crooks
of a high order--very clever at breaking in a door, and, like all the
criminal groups that we get without an invitation from over the Channel,
these c