He seated himself in a chair opposite that into which the matron had sunk, and leaned toward her with frowning concentration. Too late he remembered that the Arsenal detectives, if any were there assigned, did not sit around at all hours in evening clothes. But if she noticed at all his attire, it was with approval, judging by the confidential smile she bent upon him. “This is a manless house, except for the servants,” she began in the modulated voice of those “to the manner” born. “I have the misfortune to be a widow. This evening my daughter and my niece went to the opera with old friends of the family. I have no liking for operas of the ‘Zaza’ type so remained at home. But I promised the young ladies to stay up, as they wished to bring their friends back with them to supper.” Stopped by a thought, she indicated an ebony cigarette outfit that topped a tabaret near his chair. “Men think so much better when they smoke,” she suggested. “If you prefer cigars, Mr. Pape, I’ll have some brought in.” “Please don’t trouble. My chest’s full of ’em.” With a forced smile, she watched the “detective” produce one of his own regardlessly purchased cigars, light it and puff with manifest pleasure from its fragrance. “This afternoon,” she proceeded, “Miss Lauderdale, my niece, returned from a visit to an old woman who had been her governess years ago when her father was—well, before he lost his money. She brought back a jeweled snuffbox of antique design which had belonged to her great-grandfather. In some way not yet explained to me it had came into possession of this upper servant. Although its intrinsic value is not great—the rubies set in its cover are small, not worth more than a thousand dollars, I should say—Miss Lauderdale seems to set great store by it. She asked me to lock it up in a secret safe built in my library wall until she should want it again.” From his very light experience with operatives of the force—really none at all except with those of the printed page—Pape considered that he should begin asking questions if he was to sustain the part. He matched his finger-tips in pairs—in most “sleuth” stories they did that; cleared his throat—also inevitable; observed somewhat stupendously: “I see. You opened the secret wall safe and within it installed the heirloom snuffbox. At what hour, Mrs. Sturgis, was this?” “About five o’clock.” “And you found the safe cracked, might I ask—its contents gone?” “Not at all. You anticipate me. What jewelry I keep in the safe was all there. Some of it, at my daughter’s coaxing, I had withdrawn for her to wear to the opera. She is entirely too much of a child to be allowed such adornment, but you know our young ladies these days, Mr. Pape.” He nodded, but none too assuredly in view of his fathomless ignorance of “our young ladies these days.”