At five o’clock, during a brief lull in the usual noises on the avenue, there was a faint and aristocratic murmur of machinery in front of the mansion. The McKelvey girls’ motor-car drew up at the curb, and Miss Flora Baron alighted. The Misses McKelvey had come for her early in the afternoon and had driven her out to their suburban home, where she was always treated almost like one of the family. She was the sort of girl that people love unquestioningly: gentle, low-voiced, seemingly happy, grateful, gracious. Besides, there was a social kinship between the two families. Mrs. McKelvey had been a Miss Van Sant before her marriage, and the Van Sants and the Boones had been neighbors for a century or more. “Good-by, Flora,” called the McKelvey girls almost in one voice, as their guest hurried toward her gate. Their cheerful faces were framed by the open door of their shining coupé. And Flora looked back over her shoulder and responded gayly, and then hurried up into the vestibule of the mansion. She carried an armful of roses which the McKelveys had insisted upon her bringing home: roses with long stems, from which many of the green, wax-like leaves had not been removed. When she entered the hall she paused and sighed. Now that her friends could not see her any longer, she abandoned a certain gladsome bearing. It was so lovely out at the McKelveys’, and it was so--so different, here at home. She had the feeling one might have upon entering a dungeon. The fingers of her right hand closed upon the dull-green-and-silver tailored skirt she was wearing, and one foot was already planted on the first step of the stairway. She meant to offer the roses to her mother, who would be in the sitting-room up-stairs. But before she had mounted to the second step she heard her brother Victor’s voice in the dining-room, and she knew by his manner of speaking that he was at the telephone. This circumstance in itself was not remarkable, but he was asking for police headquarters! Visions of a burglary passed before her mind, and she wondered whimsically what anybody could find in the house worth stealing. Her brother’s next words reached her clearly: “Oh, I couldn’t say just how old she is. Say about ten. Somebody must have reported that she is lost.... Well, that certainly seems strange....” Flora changed her mind about going up-stairs immediately. Instead, she turned toward the dining-room. Victor was continuing his message: “Are you sure such a report hasn’t been made at one of the substations?” And after a brief interval there was the sound of the receiver being hung up. However, when Flora entered the dining-room her brother was speaking at the telephone again. More about a little girl. “Mr. Thornburg’s office? Mr. Thornburg? This is Baron speaking. Say--has anybody spoken to you about losing a little girl this afternoon?”