We got out without being seen or heard. At least, there was no outcry; no sign to tell we had been. Miss Deveen drew me into the dining-room; her face, as it caught the glimmer, entering by the fan-light over the hall-door, looked deadly pale. "I understand it all, Johnny. She is doing it in her sleep." "In her sleep?" "Yes. She is unconscious. It was better to come away. As she came round to search our part of the room, she might have found us, and awoke. That would have been dangerous." "But, Miss Deveen, what is she searching for?" "I know. I see it all perfectly. It is for a bank-note." "But--if she is really asleep, how can she go about the search in that systematic way? Her eyes are wide open: she seems to examine things as though she _saw_ them." "I cannot tell you how it is, Johnny. They do seem to see things, though they are asleep. What's more, when they awake there remains no consciousness of what they have done. This is not the first case of somnambulism I have been an eye-witness to. She throws the window and shutters open to admit the light." "How can she have sense to know in her sleep that opening them will admit it?" "Johnny, though these things _are_, I cannot explain them. Go up to your bed now and get to sleep. As I shall go to mine. You shall know about Janet in the morning. She will take no harm if left alone: she has taken none hitherto. Say nothing to any one." It was the solution of the great puzzle. Janet Carey had done it all in her sleep. And what she had been searching for was a bank-note.