“Not at all,” returned Desmond. He pointed to the desk. “There’s the telephone. Just for the fun of the thing, call up your house and see whether anything has happened in your absence!” His perfect self-possession and matter-of-factness sobered the girl. She looked at him curiously, then went slowly to the telephone. The two brothers, talking in undertones by the window, caught broken fragments of the conversation. When Patricia Maxwell replaced the receiver and faced them again, her self-assurance seemed somewhat shaken. “Well?” said Desmond. “I . . . I guess I don’t rightly understand,” she answered in a puzzled tone. “Some one’s been in and ransacked my boudoir. The butler says a man, claiming to come from the electric-light company, called this afternoon to look at the wall-plugs or something. Barton—that’s the butler—left him alone in the dining-room, which is separated from the boudoir only by a curtain, while he went to the back hall to answer the telephone. He was at the instrument for two or three minutes, he says, and when he returned he found the boudoir window open, the place upside down, and the man gone. Say, who is this clubfooted man, anyway?” But, before Desmond could answer, a sharp “pss-t” from Francis called him over to the window. Kneeling at the sill, his brother was peering through the blind. “I think they’re watching the house,” he said. “Did you notice if you were followed when you came here, Patricia?” “I drove in a taxi,” the girl answered, “so I can’t really say.” On the opposite side of the street a young man was pacing nonchalantly up and down, his face raised to the houses across the way. Even as they watched, they saw him lift his hand. Something white fluttered . . . “Wait a minute!” said Desmond, and hurried into the adjoining bedroom. The block of flats, of which he occupied the top floor, stood at the corner of a turning and the windows of the bedroom gave on the side street. Before the shop occupying the opposite corner a man was lounging. For an instant the light from the shop front fell on his face, a pale narrow face with a long white scar running horizontally beneath the right eye. “Heinrich’s at the corner!” announced Desmond, returning to the living-room. “Clubfoot’s aide, do you mean?” queried Francis. Desmond nodded. “Which his other name is Kriege. Since he made that lucky get-away with Grundt in the affair of the purple cabriolet we have been looking up his record. He is said to be a first-class linguist and a marvellous hand at disguises. I shouldn’t wonder if he were not Miss Maxwell’s friend, Saumergue.” He turned to the American. “Would it bore you frightfully to stay and dine with us?” he asked. “Why, no!” she replied. “But I thought you two boys were coming home with me!” “It will be out of the question to leave the house for the present—at any rate, by the front door,” said Desmond, and picked up the telephone.