Mr. Ringold returned with his wife at that moment and Nick resumed his inquiries. The woman could add but little, however, to what her husband already had stated. She described the messenger as a dark man of medium build, wearing a livery and accompanied by a chauffeur, who remained in the limousine while the other performed his supposedly genuine mission. “At what time did he call, Mrs. Ringold?” Nick inquired. “I think it was shortly after five o’clock,” she replied. “It then was dark out-of-doors?” “Yes, indeed. It had been dark for some little time.” “It did not occur to you to telephone to Mrs. Carrington, I infer, to inquire concerning her husband, or to express your sympathy,” said Nick. “Well, I think quite likely I should have done so,” Mrs. Ringold replied; “but I first undertook to call up my friend, Mrs. Waldmere, and I found that the telephone was out of order. That precluded both communications.” “And you suspected nothing wrong?” “No, nothing whatever. I did not dream of such an imposition as my husband has just mentioned.” Nick did not add to his inquiries. He directed both to say nothing about the matter, and after a word of regret for having disturbed them, he withdrew from the house with his assistant. “Now, Patsy, we’ll have a look at those wires,” he said quietly, after Ringold had closed the front door. “I’m with you, chief,” Patsy nodded. They had no difficulty in finding where the wires entered the house, a point near one of the library windows. As Nick had predicted, moreover, they were found to be neatly cut and the instrument temporarily rendered useless. “Here are tracks of the rascal’s boots,” he remarked, pointing to some imprints in the damp earth. “He stole in here after getting the invitation cards and cut the wires.” “Surest thing you know,” said Patsy. “That is why he waited until after dark before calling here,” Nick added. “He then could turn the trick without being seen. Come, we’ll go home. We can accomplish no more until to-morrow.” “But what can we then accomplish?” questioned Patsy. “We seem to have no clew to the identity of the rascals, nor any thread worth following up.” “I’m not so sure of that,” Nick replied. “We’ll consider it later.” It was three o’clock when they arrived home, and they found Chick waiting for them in the library, with a cigar in his mouth and his heels elevated to the edge of the table. “Well, we don’t get much beauty sleep to-night,” he remarked, with a laugh, when Nick and Patsy entered. “You don’t need any,” said Patsy dryly. “So my mirror tells me,” replied Chick, laughing again. “What more have you learned, Nick?” Nick informed him of the results of his hurried visit to Brooklyn. “By Jove, it’s a curious case,” Chick then declared. “The job certainly was well planned and very neatly executed. But what’s the big idea? Who is out after Waldmere? With what object, Nick, and who are the culprits?”