Miss Jones laughed. “None of that, Patsy,” she said laughingly. “If the chief ever comes to think of me as a girl, he’ll fire me as sure as fate.” Nick looked at her admiringly. “I’m not quite as bad as that, Ida,” he said. “Give me credit, please, for knowing that you’re a girl, and a remarkably attractive one. But you’re a corking good detective, also, and I’m afraid that interests me more. No more nonsense now, you two. It’s time to go.” A couple of travel-worn suit cases had been provided and packed. Catching these up, Patsy went off down the stairs, followed by Nick and the girl. About half an hour later their machine—a hired taxi—halted at Miss Worth’s steps. Patsy and the girl jumped out and solicitously helped their companion to alight, while the chauffeur rang the bell. Miss Worth herself followed the servant to the door, and all concerned played their parts to perfection. Patsy was a rather officious, but tender-hearted friend. Ida Jones made a beautiful and devoted wife, while Nick assumed a querulous voice and a crotchety manner which went well with his apparent weakness. “I don’t want any nurses fussing about me, except when it is absolutely necessary,” he declared. “I’ve had quite enough of nurses. I want just a quiet, peaceful time, you understand?” Miss Worth assured him that he would have no cause to complain of overattention, and gave Mrs. Bainbridge a reassuring look behind his back. Patsy was having all he could do to keep a straight face, and, indeed, when the others had left the reception room, he felt obliged to relax and indulge in a hearty, though silent, laugh. In a moment he became serious enough, however, when he remembered Follansbee’s threats and the defenseless position in which his chief was placing himself. Ida Jones had, of course, accompanied her “husband” to the room which he was to occupy. She had declared that she must see it, in order to be sure that he would be comfortable. Five minutes later, however, she returned to the waiting room, still escorted by Miss Worth, and, after leaving many parting injunctions, she accompanied Patsy out of the house. “When the taxi starts, you must applaud, Patsy,” she whispered, as they crossed the veranda. “I flatter myself that I did that fairly well.” “You certainly did,” he answered. “You could give points to most wives—except mine.” He was thinking of something else though—of Stephen Follansbee’s diabolical cleverness. “Twenty-four hours is the most I’ll allow the chief,” he said, repeating his resolve. “If he isn’t out by that time—unless I know everything is all right—I’m going to stick a finger into the pie once more.” CHAPTER XLIII. THE HYPNOTIC SPELL.