The second curious thing occurred between nine o'clock and half-past, when the gentlemen of the party were lingering at the table over post-prandial liqueurs and cigars, and the ladies had adjourned to the drawing-room. A recollection of having carelessly left his kit-bag unlocked drew Cleek to invent an excuse for leaving the room for a minute or two and sent him speeding up the stairs. The gas in the upper halls had been lowered while the members of the household were below; the passages were dim and shadowy, and the thick carpet on halls and stairs gave forth never a murmur of sound from under his feet nor from under the feet of yet another person who had gone like he, but by a different staircase, to the floors above. It was, therefore, only by the merest chance that he looked down one of the passages in passing and saw a swift-moving figure--a woman's--cross it at the lower end and pass hastily into the nursery of the sleeping boy. And--whether her purpose was a good or an evil one--it was something of a shock to realize that the woman who was doing this was the Honourable Mrs. Carruthers. He locked the kit-bag, and went back to the dining-room just as the little gathering was breaking up, and Mr. Claude Essington, who always fed his magpies and his other pets himself, was bewailing the fact that he had "forgotten the beauties until this minute" and was smoothing out an old newspaper in which to wrap the scraps of cheese and meat he had sent the butler to the kitchen to procure. The Honourable Felix looked up at Cleek with a question in his eye. "No," he contrived to whisper in reply. "It was not anything poisonous--merely candle wax. The bird had flown in through the store-room window, and the housekeeper caught it carrying away candles one by one." The Honourable Felix made no response, nor would it have been heard had he done so; for just at that moment young Essington, whose eye had been caught by something in the paper, burst out into a loud guffaw. "I say, this is rich. Listen here, you fellows! Lay you a tenner that the chap who wrote this was a Paddy Whack, for a finer bull never escaped from a Tipperary paddock: "'Lost: Somewhere between Portsmouth and London or some other spot on the way, a small black leather bag containing a death certificate and some other things of no value to anybody but the owner. Finder will be liberally rewarded if all contents are returned intact to "'D. J. O'M., 425 Savile Row, West.' "There's a beautiful example of English as she is advertised for you; and if--Hullo, Deland, old chap, what's the matter with you?" For Cleek had suddenly jumped up and, catching the Honourable Felix by the shoulder, was hurrying him out of the room.