He had seen it a few days before, was certain he had, shook up the contents, then overturned the box, strewing the studs and pins on the bureau. But it was fruitless—the band, crushed and flattened as he remembered it, was gone. He muttered an angry phrase, its loss came as a jar on the exaltation of his mood. Then a soft step on the staircase caught his ear, and looking up he saw Willitts’ head rise into view. The man came down the passage and spoke with his customary quiet deference: "I saw the car outside, sir, and knew you’d come back. Would you like dinner—the cook says she can have it ready in a minute?" "No," Ferguson’s voice was short, "I dined in town. Look here, I’ve lost something—" he pointed to the scattered jewelry—"I had a cigar band in that box and it’s gone. Did you see it?" Willitts looked at the box and shook his head: "No, sir. A cigar band, a thing made of paper?" There was the faintest suggestion of surprise in his voice. "Yes, you must have seen it. It was there a few days ago, underneath all that truck—I saw it myself." The man again shook his head and, moving to the bureau, began to shift the toilet articles and look among them. "I’m afraid I didn’t see it, sir, or if I did I didn’t notice. Maybe it’s got strayed away somewhere." He continued his search, Ferguson watching him with moody irritation: "What the devil could have happened to it? I put it in there myself, put it in that particular place for safekeeping." Willitts, feeling about the bureau with careful fingers, said: "Was it of any _value_, sir?" "Yes," Ferguson having little hope of finding it turned away and threw himself into a chair, "it was of great value. I wouldn’t have lost it for anything. It was evidence—" he stopped, growling a smothered "Damn." He had said enough; he didn’t want the servants chattering. "I’m very sorry, sir, but it doesn’t seem to be here. Perhaps the chambermaid threw it away, thinking it had got in the box by mistake." "I daresay—it sounds likely. I wish the people in this house would let my room alone, control their mad desire for neatness and leave things where I put them. Have the car taken to the garage, I’m not coming down again. If any one calls up I’m out. Good-night." "Good-night, sir," said Willitts, and softly withdrew. CHAPTER XXIII—MOLLY’S STORY After that Monday night when he went off in a rage, Ferguson didn’t show up at Grasslands for several days and I had the place to myself and all the time I wanted. Believe me, I wanted a lot and made use of it. While the others were concentrating on the kidnaping—the big thing that had absorbed all their interest—I went back to the job I was engaged for, the robbery. And I went back with a fresh eye, the old idea cleared out of my head by Mrs. Price’s confession.