“This will be easy,” said Cunningham, reading his instructions; “these times won’t be altered, I suppose?” “If they are, I shall know all about it,” said the girl. “Everyone must make a note of those instructions in your own code and you must do it pretty quickly.” “What’s the hurry?” asked Westhanger, who, alone of the men about the table, had received no paper. “I want to see every sheet burnt before we leave the room,” she said. The Colonel frowned. “But--” he began. “I want all the papers burnt before we leave the room,” she said again emphatically. Her uncle growled but the others knew her well enough to realize that she had an excellent reason. Each man in his own way, some in note-books, some on the back of loose sheets of paper faithfully transcribed the instructions, using their own pet abbreviations, their own particular symbols and one by one, as fast as they completed their copies, the girl collected the papers, heard the instructions read over, corrected one, amended another and finally gathering all the sheets in her hand, she walked to the fireplace, deposited them in the grate and set a lighted match to them. She watched them burn until they were black ash and put her foot upon them crushing the embers to dust. “Are you nervous?” asked the Colonel sarcastically. “Are you?” she asked coolly. “Well it does seem a little--” From the corner of the room came a soft but insistent purr. The men jumped to their feet. “Put away the tables quickly,” said the girl under her breath. They separated the table into three parts. With an agility remarkable in one of his years the Colonel flung a cloth over each, lifted a pot of flowers on to one, arranged a photograph on another and left the third to the bezique players. The girl seated herself at the piano, opened it and began a soft movement from “Rigoletto.” “Sing,” she said under her breath. The obedient Mr. Mulberry shuffled up to her side. He had a pleasing voice and the girl picked up the strain.… “I am sorry to disturb the harmony,” said Michael Pretherston from the doorway. “May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded Colonel Westhanger haughtily as half-a-dozen Scotland Yard men crowded into the room behind their chief. “It is what is vulgarly known as a raid,” said Michael. “Everybody will remain where he is while I run a foot rule over him. Parsons, you will take these gentlemen one by one into an adjoining room and search him most thoroughly. Mrs. Gray,” he called to the door and a stout middle-aged woman with a pleasant face appeared, “you will perform the same kind office for Miss Westhanger.” “Why not ‘Kate’?” asked the girl scornfully. “You are getting polite in your old age, Mike.” “Miss Westhanger,” he repeated suavely. “Suppose I refuse to be searched?” “Then I shall convey you to a vulgar police station,” said Michael, “and the process of search will be carried out in uncongenial surroundings.”