When Martha, on her return from Stephen's, had climbed the dimly lighted stairs leading to her apartment, she ran against a thick-set man, in brown clothes and derby hat, seated on the top step. He had interviewed the faded old wreck who served as janitress and, learning that Mrs. Munger would be back any minute, had taken this method of being within touching distance when the good woman unlocked her door. She might decide to leave him outside its panels while she got in her fine work of hiding the thing he had climbed up three flights of stairs to find. In that case, a twist of his foot between the door and the jamb would block the game. “Are you the man who has been waiting for me?” she exclaimed, as the detective's big frame became discernible under the faint rays from the “Paul Pry” skylight. “Yes, if you are the woman who is living with Mrs. Stanton.” He had risen to his feet and had moved toward the door. “I'm Mrs. Munger, if that's who you are looking for, and we live together. She's not back yet, so the woman down-stairs has just told me. Are you from Rosenthal's?” “I am.” He had edged nearer, his fingers within reach of the knob, his lids narrowing as he studied her face and movements. “Did they find the lace--the mantilla?” “Not as I heard,” he answered, noting her anxiety. “That's what brought me down. I thought maybe you might know something about it.” “Didn't find it?” she sighed. “No, I knew they wouldn't. She was sure she had taken it up night before last, but I knew she hadn't. Where's my key?--Oh, yes--stand back and get out of my light so I can find the keyhole. It's dark enough as it is. That's right. Now come inside. You can wait for her better in here than out on these steps. Look, will you! There's her coffee just as she left it. She hasn't had a crumb to eat to-day. What do you want to see her about? The rest of the work? It's in the box there.” Pickert, with a swift, comprehensive glance, summed up the apartment and its contents: the little table by the window with Lady Barbara's work-basket; the small stove, and pine table set out with the breakfast things; the cheap chairs; the dresser with its array of china, and the two bedrooms opening out of the modest interior. Its cleanliness and order impressed him; so did Martha's unexpected frankness. If she knew anything of the theft, she was an adept at putting up a bluff. “When do you expect Mrs. Stanton back?” he began, in an offhand way, stretching his shoulders as if the long wait on the stairs had stiffened his joints. “That's her name, ain't it?” “I expected to find her here,” she answered, ignoring his inquiry as to Lady Barbara's identity. “They are keeping her, no doubt, on some new work. She hasn't had any breakfast, and now it's long past lunch-time. And they didn't find the piece of lace? That's bad! Poor dear, she was near crazy when she found it was gone!”