In the silence they could hear the thrill of the electric bell. They waited a few minutes, and rang again. Then they heard a window opened and a sleepy voice demand-- “Who is there?” Angel stepped back from the porch and looked up. “Hullo, Mauder! I want you. I’m Angel.” “The devil!” said a surprised voice. “Wait a bit. I’ll be down in a jiffy.” The pleasant-faced man who in dressing-gown and pajamas opened the door to them and conducted them to a cozy library was Mr. Ernest Mauder himself. It is unnecessary to introduce that world-famous publisher to the reader, the more particularly in view of the storm of controversy that burst about his robust figure in regard to the recent publication of Count Lehoff’s embarrassing “Memoirs.” He made a sign to the two men to be seated, nodding to Jimmy as to an old friend. “I am awfully sorry to disturb you at this rotten hour,” Angel commenced, and the other arrested his apology with a gesture. “You detective people are so fond of springing surprises on us unintelligent outsiders,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I am almost tempted to startle you.” “It takes a lot to startle me,” said Angel complacently. “You’ve brought it on your own head,” warned the publisher, wagging a forefinger at the smiling Angel. “Now let me tell you why you have motored down from London on this miserable night on a fairly fruitless errand.” “Eh?” The smile left Angel’s face. “Ah, I thought that would startle you! You’ve come about a book?” “Yes,” said Jimmy wonderingly. “A book published by our people nine years ago?” “Yes,” the wonderment deepening on the faces of the two men. “The title,” said the publisher impressively, “is _A Short Study on the Origin of the Alphabet_, and the author is a half-mad old don, who was subsequently turned out of Oxford for drunkenness.” “Mauder,” said Jimmy, gazing at his host in bewilderment, “you’ve hit it--but----” “Ah,” said the publisher, triumphant, “I thought that was it. Well, your search is fruitless. We only printed five hundred copies; the book was a failure--the same ground was more effectively covered by better books. I found a dusty old copy a few years ago, and gave it to my secretary. So far as I know, that is the only copy in existence.” “But your secretary?” said Angel eagerly. “What is his name? Where does he live?” “It’s not a ‘he,’” said Mauder, “but a ‘she.’” “Her name?” “If you had asked that question earlier in the evening I could not have told you,” said Mauder, obviously enjoying the mystery he had created, “but since then my memory has been refreshed. The girl--and a most charming lady too--was my secretary for two years. I do not know what induced her to work, but I rather think she supported an invalid father.” “What is her name?” asked Angel impatiently. “Kathleen Kent,” replied the publisher, “and her address is----” “Kathleen Kent!” repeated Jimmy in wide-eyed astonishment. “Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!”