That first day was calm and quiet enough. Had it not been for the strange condition of the house and the necessity for keeping the children locked in I would have smiled at my terror of the night. Luncheon was sent in; so was dinner. The children and I lunched and supped alone. As far as I could see, Mrs. Reed made no attempt at housework; but the cot at the head of the stairs disappeared in the early morning and the dog did not howl again. I took the boys out for an hour in the early afternoon. Two incidents occurred, both of them significant. I bought myself a screw driver—that was one. The other was our meeting with a slender young woman in black who knew the boys and stopped them. She proved to be one of the dismissed servants—the waitress, she said. “Why, Freddie!” she cried. “And Harry too! Aren’t you going to speak to Nora?” After a moment or two she turned to me, and I felt she wanted to say something, but hardly dared. “How is Mrs. Reed?” she asked. “Not sick, I hope?” She glanced at my St. Luke’s cloak and bonnet. “No, she is quite well.” “And Mr. Reed?” “Quite well also.” “Is Mademoiselle still there?” “No, there is no one there but the family. There are no maids in the house.” She stared at me curiously. “Mademoiselle has gone? Are you cer—— Excuse me, Miss. But I thought she would never go. The children were like her own.” “She is not there, Nora.” She stood for a moment debating, I thought. Then she burst out: “Mr. Reed made a mistake, miss. You can’t take a houseful of first-class servants and dismiss them the way he did, without half an hour to get out bag and baggage, without making talk. And there’s talk enough all through the neighborhood.” “What sort of talk?” “Different people say different things. They say Mademoiselle is still there, locked in her room on the third floor. There’s a light there sometimes, but nobody sees her. And other folks say Mr. Reed is crazy. And there is worse being said than that.” But she refused to tell me any more—evidently concluded she had said too much and got away as quickly as she could, looking rather worried. I was a trifle over my hour getting back, but nothing was said. To leave the clean and tidy street for the disordered house was not pleasant. But once in the children’s suite, with the goldfish in the aquarium darting like tongues of flame in the sunlight, with the tulips and hyacinths of the window-boxes glowing and the orderly toys on their white shelves, I felt comforted. After all, disorder and dust did not imply crime. But one thing I did that afternoon—did it with firmness and no attempt at secrecy, and after asking permission of no one. I took the new screw driver and unfastened the bolt from the outside of my door. I was prepared, if necessary, to make a stand on that issue. But although it was noticed, I knew, no mention of it was made to me.