Mrs. Mallett’s bedroom was the first floor front. Here the confusion was, if possible, greater than in the other rooms. The bed had been completely unmade and the clothes thrown separately on the floor, and everything else was displaced. It was here, indeed, that the most noticeable features of the disturbance were observed, for on the side of the looking-glass hung a very long, old-fashioned gold chain untouched, and on the dressing-table lay a purse with the money still in it. And on the looking-glass, stuck into the crack of the frame, was a half sheet of notepaper with this inscription scrawled in pencil:-- _To Mr. Martin Hewitt._ _Mrs. Mallett is alright and in frends hands. She will return soon alright, if you keep quiet. But if you folloe her or take any steps the conseqinses will be very serious._ This paper was not only curious in itself, and curious as being addressed to Hewitt, but it was plainly in the same handwriting as were the most of the anonymous letters which Mrs. Mallett had produced the day before in Hewitt’s office. Hewitt studied it attentively for a few moments, and then thrust it in his pocket and proceeded to inspect the rest of the rooms. All were the same--simply well-furnished rooms turned upside down. The top floor consisted of three comfortable attics, one used as a lumber room and the others used respectively as bedrooms for the servant and the deaf old woman. None of these rooms appeared to have been entered, the girl said, on the first night, but now the lumber-room was almost as confused as the rooms downstairs. Two or three boxes were opened and their contents turned out. One of these was what is called a steel trunk--a small one--which had held old papers; the others were filled chiefly with old clothes. The servant’s room next this was quite undisturbed and untouched; and then Hewitt was admitted to the room of Mrs. Mallett’s deaf old pensioner. The old woman sat propped up in her bed, and looked with half-blind eyes at the peak in the bedclothes made by her bent knees. The servant screamed in her ear, but she neither moved nor spoke. Hewitt laid his hand on her shoulder and said, in the slow and distinct tones he had found best for reaching the senses of deaf people, “I hope you are well. Did anything disturb you in the night?” But she only turned her head half toward him and mumbled peevishly, “I wish you’d bring my tea. You’re late enough this morning.” Nothing seemed likely to be got from her, and Hewitt asked the servant, “Is she altogether bedridden?” “No,” the girl answered; “leastways she needn’t be. She stops in bed most of the time, but she can get up when she likes--I’ve seen her. But missis humours her and lets her do as she likes--and she gives plenty of trouble. I don’t believe she’s as deaf as she makes out.”