The room was flooded with light, but it was empty. At one end of the apartment was a long window, heavily barred. The blind was drawn, and this the detective pulled up, only to discover that the window was closed and had apparently not been opened. “That’s rum,” he said. “It was the noise of a blind I heard.” “The wind?” suggested Lewinstein. “It couldn’t have been the wind, sir, the windows are hermetically closed.” “Well nobody could get in that window anyway, through the bars,” said his lordship; but the detective shook his head. “An ordinary man couldn’t, sir. I’m not so sure that a young girl couldn’t slip through there as easily as you slip through the door.” “Bah!” said his lordship, “you’re nervous. Just take a look round, my good fellow.” There were no cupboards, and practically no places where anybody could hide, so the examination of the room was of a perfunctory character. “Are you satisfied?” asked his lordship. “Perfectly,” said the detective, and they went out, closing the door which Lord Claythorpe locked behind them. By half-past eleven the guests had departed, all except Lewinstein, who was hoping that he would be admitted to the curious ceremonial which Claythorpe had described. But in this he was disappointed. His lordship entered the library alone, locked the door behind him and switched out the lights, lest any prying eyes should see where he deposited the jewel cases he took from the great safe in the corner of the room. Presently they heard the soft thud of closing doors, and he emerged. “That’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, as he pocketed the keys. “Now come along and have a drink before you go. You’ll stay here, Johnson, won’t you?” he said to the private detective. “Yes, my lord,” said the man. On the way to the smoking-room where drinks had been served, Lord Claythorpe explained that he did not rely entirely upon the detective agency, that he had indeed notified Scotland Yard. “The house is being watched, or will be watched, night and day until after the wedding,” he said. “I think you’re wise,” responded Mr. Lewinstein. He tossed down a stiff whisky and soda, and, accompanied by his host, went into the hall where he was helped on with his coat. He was on the point of saying “Good night,” when there was a thunderous knock at the front door, and the butler opened it. Two men stood on the doorstep gripping between them a frail and slender figure. “It’s all right, sir,” said one, with a note of exultation, “we’ve got her! Can we come in?” “Got her?” gasped his lordship, “who is it?” And yet there was no need for him to ask. The prisoner was a girl dressed from head to foot in black. A heavy veil covered her face, being secured apparently under the tightly-fitting little felt hat on her head. “Caught her under your library window,” said one of the men with satisfaction, and there was a grunt from Johnson the private detective. “Who are you?” asked his lordship.