"There is another possibility," said Mrs. Pett. "My nephew, Mr. William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it is quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it." "Sure. Men'll do anything. If y' put all the men in th' world in th' cooler, wouldn't be 'ny more crime." She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket and removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series of calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of masculinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy in the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would lightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whom Man, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would go out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mystery over in her mind, when her visitor spoke. "Well, gimme th' rest of th' dope," said Miss Trimble. "I beg your pardon?" "More facts. Spill 'm!" "Oh, I understand," said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on a brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her to desire skilled assistance. "Lor' W'sbeach?" said Miss Trimble, breaking the story. "Who's he?" "A very great friend of ours." "You vouch f'r him pers'n'lly? He's all right, uh? Not a crook, huh?" "Of course he is not!" said Mrs. Pett indignantly. "He's a great friend of mine." "All right. Well, I guess thass 'bout all, huh? I'll be going downstairs 'an starting in." "You can come here immediately?" "Sure. Got parlour-maid rig round at m' boarding-house round corner. Come back with it 'n ten minutes. Same dress I used when I w's working on th' Marling D'vorce case. D'jer know th' Marlings? Idle rich! Bound t' get 'nto trouble. I fixed 'm. Well, g'bye. Mus' be going. No time t' waste." Mrs. Pett leaned back faintly in her chair. She felt overcome. Downstairs, on her way out, Miss Trimble had paused in the hall to inspect a fine statue which stood at the foot of the stairs. It was a noble work of art, but it seemed to displease her. She snorted. "Idle rich!" she muttered scornfully. "Brrh!" The portly form of Mr. Crocker loomed up from the direction of the back stairs. She fixed her left eye on him piercingly. Mr. Crocker met it, and quailed. He had that consciousness of guilt which philosophers tell is the worst drawback to crime. Why this woman's gaze should disturb him so thoroughly, he could not have said. She was a perfect stranger to him. She could know nothing about him. Yet he quailed. "Say," said Miss Trimble. "I'm c'ming here 's parlour-maid." "Oh, ah?" said Mr. Crocker, feebly. "Grrrh!" observed Miss Trimble, and departed. CHAPTER XVIII THE VOICE PROM THE PAST