“It doesn’t show anything,” rejoined Savage. “How do you account for the doors being fastened inside, with the keys left in the locks in the rooms? You don’t suppose a lady leaving her rooms would have somebody inside to bolt and lock the doors and then get out of the window in a flying machine, do you?” “Where is the maid?” asked Mallory. “In hysterics in the housekeeper’s room,” was the disgusted reply. “She and the housekeeper got in with the housekeeper’s master key, and after one look at Mrs. van Dietrich’s bed, the girl darted at her employer’s trunks, of which she had the keys, and searched through them. All the jewelry was gone.” “H’m! Perhaps the maid----” “She had never left her own room from the time she went there, after putting her mistress to bed, until she went to call Mrs. van Dietrich this morning. We have the testimony of the maid who shares the room with her for that. This maid was awake with the toothache, practically all night, and she knows the other one never left the room.” “Have you done anything about it?” asked Mallory. “Yes,” was the reply. “I heard about this thing two hours ago.” “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?” “What would have been the use? I thought I might find out, by quiet investigation, before I came to you. Only the housekeeper and the maid, Mary Cook, know Mrs. van Dietrich is gone. After ten minutes’ inquiry and examination, I decided it was too much for us alone, and I wired to New York for Nicholas Carter.” “The big detective, eh? That was a good move, Paul. I only hope he’ll come. What did you say in the message?” “Told him an important case was here for him, and that we would pay any fee. He could name his own figure. But it was urgent, and would he come at once?” “Two hours since you sent that to him in New York?” “A little more than two hours. But I’ve had no answer. If he’d start at once, he could be here by evening.” “Perhaps he isn’t at home.” “That’s what I’m afraid of. He’s the only man I can think of who would be likely to make anything of this. It’s too much for the average policeman. Indeed----” A rap at the door of the office made Paul Savage step to the door with an irritable wrinkling upon his lean face of a score of lines which had not been there before, while James Mallory growled from behind his desk. “Oh, Colonel Pearson?” ejaculated Savage, with forced toleration, as he found himself face to face with one of the house’s guests. “Is there anything----” Colonel Pearson was a cleanly built, soldierly looking man, with broad shoulders and a remarkably keen face. The dark eyes had a way of looking through anybody on whom they rested. At least, that was the conclusion to which Paul Savage had come. He was in summer attire, and had the calm insouciance of the wealthy man of leisure. “I have received a telegram,” remarked the colonel, holding up a crumpled yellow paper. “It has only just got to me. I came at once to see what it was all about.”