“I have a special force of police within call,” said Peter, “and the roads are watched by detectives, but I’m afraid I can’t promise you anything exciting. She’s too slippery for us.” “Anyway, the messenger----” began Tresser. Peter shook his head. “The messenger may be a district messenger, though here again I have taken precautions--all the district messenger offices have been warned to notify Scotland Yard in the event of somebody coming with a parcel addressed here.” Eight o’clock boomed out from the neighbouring church, but Four Square Jane had not put in an appearance. Five minutes later there came a ring at the bell, and Peter Dawes opened the door. It was a telegraph boy. Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message through carefully, and laughed--a hopeless, admiring laugh. “She’s done it,” he said. “What do you mean?” asked Tresser. “Come in here,” said Peter. He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on the wall, and behind it the half-obliterated label which Four Square Jane had stuck. He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows. “The picture is here,” he said, “it has never left the room.” He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly revolved. There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney. * * * * * “I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,” said Peter to his chief. It was quick work, but it was possible to do it. “She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that infernal thing down!” “The question that worries me,” said the Chief, “is this--Who _is_ Four Square Jane?” “That,” replied Peter, “is just what I am going to discover.” IV Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce. According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without mercy. And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had from Joyce.