“Yes, but listen----” “Run along!” “But I don’t understand.” “Push off!” Yielding to superior force, Willoughby Braddock entered San Rafael, walking pensively. And Sam, stepping off the gravel onto the grass, moved with a stealthy tread toward his home. Vague but lively suspicions were filling his mind. He had reached the foot of the steps and paused to listen, when the evening air was suddenly split by a sharp feminine scream. This was followed by a joyous barking. And this in its turn was followed by the abrupt appearance of a flying figure, racing toward the gate. It was moving swiftly and the light was dim, but Sam had no difficulty in recognising his old acquaintance Miss Gunn, of Pittsburgh. She fled rapidly through the gate and out into Burberry Road, while Amy, looking in the dusk like a small elephant, gambolled about her, uttering strange canine noises. Dolly slammed the gate, but gates meant nothing to Amy. She poured herself over it and the two passed into the darkness. Sam’s jaw set grimly. He moved with noiseless steps to the door of Mon Repos and took out his key. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR MAINLY ABOUT TROUSERS § 1 The meeting between Amy and Mrs. Molloy had taken place owing to the resolve of the latter to search the small conservatory which stood outside the back door. She had told Soapy that she thought the missing bonds might be hidden there. They were not, but Amy was. The conservatory was a favourite sleeping porch of Amy’s, and thither she had repaired on discovering that her frolicsome overtures to Hash had been taken in the wrong spirit. Mrs. Molloy’s feelings, on groping about in the dark and suddenly poking her hand into the cavernous mouth of the largest dog she had ever encountered, have perhaps been sufficiently indicated by the description of her subsequent movements. Iron-nerved woman though she was, this was too much for her. The single scream which she emitted, previous to saving her breath for the race for life, penetrated only faintly to where Mr. Molloy sat taking a rest on the sofa in the drawing-room. He heard it, but it had no message for him. He was feeling a little better now, and his ganglions, though not having ceased to vibrate with uncomfortable rapidity, were beginning to simmer down. He decided that he would give himself another couple of minutes of repose. It was toward the middle of the second minute that the door opened quietly and Sam came in. He stood looking at the recumbent Mr. Molloy for a moment. “Comfortable?” he said. Soapy shot off the sofa with a sort of gurgling whoop. Of all the disturbing events of that afternoon, this one had got more surely in amongst his nerve centres than any other. He had not heard the door open, and Sam’s voice had been the first intimation that he was no longer alone. “I’m afraid I startled you,” said Sam.