“It was a woman. I saw her. She ran out at that——” “Where is Miss Nightingale? She isn’t here. Perhaps she has been murdered in her sleep. Oh, it is horrible. I wish——” And so on, and so on, ad libitum, ad infinitum. Half-finished sentences, all of them. Excitement everywhere, and then a general rush toward Nan Nightingale’s rooms to find why she was not among them. Hysterical cries from the women; reassuring expressions from the men. Expressions of wonder at the din of the alarm, and at the sudden appearance of the lights—and then, the interior of Nan’s suite of rooms. Nan Nightingale was not there. Everywhere within those rooms were evidences of disorder, but Nan Nightingale, herself, had disappeared. More than that, it was discovered, presently, that many of her effects had disappeared with her. In one of the rooms, where the maid slept, the maid herself was discovered, deep in the stupor of a drug which was supposed to be chloroform. One by one the house guests crowded into the parlor of Nan’s suite. Some of them remained standing; some of the men perched themselves upon the arms of chairs, or upon the edges of tables; the women dropped upon chairs, or upon hassocks, and without exception they gazed at one another in utter consternation. Then, one by one, they began the recounting of the experiences of the night, which was still young, for it was not yet two o’clock. Chick was not there, and, strangely enough, nobody seemed to have noticed his absence. Without giving in detail all that was said at that informal meeting in Nan’s boudoir, suffice it to say that there was not a woman present who was not willing to swear that she had seen or heard some person in her room; and in the midst of it all Lenore Remsen exclaimed: “But why should a burglar have carried Nan away?” Every one was silent; then the voice of Duryea: “Little goose! She wasn’t carried away. She ran away.” “But why? Why?” “My dear, there could be only one reason. Carter was right behind her. She had to escape, or get caught, and she took the former course. I caught a glimpse of her as she ran through the rear doorway, and apparently jumped into a motor car. That must have been held there by an accomplice who was waiting to take away the spoils; the swag, I believe they call it? Eh? Carter? You’re a detective. You ought to know.” Every eye in the room was turned upon Nick Carter then. The situation was a clever one, adroitly arranged by Jimmy Duryea. Nick met their looks calmly, and he replied quietly: “I ran after a person, but it was not a woman. It was not Miss Nightingale. Of that, I am certain.” “Oh, come, Carter, what’s the use of all that?” exclaimed Duryea. “I saw her, too. She wore some sort of a red wrapper, and an automobile veil, and——” “And trousers under the wrapper, and a mustache under the veil,” the detective interrupted him. “Then where is Nan Nightingale?” demanded Theodore Remsen, stepping forward.