He felt himself raised, jolted, tipped; he felt the chill of cold night air as it found access through the crack. He realized that he was being thrust feet first into a van and driven rapidly, he knew not where. "And now," said Mr. Sellars, "I think we had better look for Mr. Mickleworth." "Let us begin in the butler's pantry," suggested Cousin Laura Fanshaw, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. The Christmas party sought high and low; they penetrated to the upper floors, and not until Selma had sung "In the Gloaming" before every closet door did they give up the quest. "It's most mysterious," asserted the host. "It's worse," his wife corrected him; "it's most ill-bred." "Oh, we must look again," cried Selma, now in real distress; "he may be lying somewhere faint and ill." "Nonsense!" rejoined Mrs. Pease. "Leave him alone, and, my word for it, he will make his appearance in a little while looking silly enough. Lemuel, a glass of water, if you please." While the good lady sank exhausted to a chair, her devoted son-in-law hastened to the dining-room to supply her want. "The ice-pitcher is not there," he said, returning. "I'll ring." "But the pitcher must be in its usual place on the sideboard with the other silver," his wife protested. "But all the same, it isn't," he insisted. "There is nothing on the sideboard; not a thing. Come see for yourself." This gave occasion for the playful aphorism concerning the inability of man to see beyond his nose, but presently a scream from Mrs. Livermore confirmed her husband's statement. "My pitcher!" she cried piteously. "My silver dishes! My epergne! Where have they gone? Where is Auguste?" "Auguste," said Mary Anne, who, scenting an excitement, now ran up the kitchen stairs, "has also gone. He drove off with the sofa in the van." "With the sofa?" "Yes, ma'am; sitting on it." "Robbed!" cried Mr. Livermore, with a lightning flash of keen conviction, and the entire company repeated in a hollow chorus: "Robbed!" But Mr. Livermore's lightning, after the manner of such fluids, was not satisfied to score a single bull's-eye. "It was a deep conspiracy," he went on, becoming clairvoyant, "and ten to one that Mickleworth young man was in the plot." "You shall not say such horrid things of him, papa," cried Selma. "A thief!" persisted Mr. Livermore, disregarding her. "A villain in disguise! I don't believe that this impostor was ever Cousin Dick's old chum." "Oh, papa," Selma interrupted, trembling; "Dick himself introduced Mr. Mickleworth to me at Southampton last summer. I did not tell you about it till you could know him and see how nice he is." "Nice?" gasped her mother. "Nice?" "Yes, mamma," Selma cried, sobbing, but still undaunted; "awfully nice, and he can write the most respectful little notes." "Notes?" screamed her mother. "Selma, you stand there and tell me you have corresponded with a burglar? Oh, that I should have lived to see this day!"