Eleven o'clock was striking as I gained the street again, and turned my steps toward the Lawrence place. If there were indeed any new developments, it must be either there or at the cottage that they had come to light. That was self-evident; that could be the only rendezvous; it was there Godfrey was awaiting me. So I walked on rapidly, and in a very few minutes reached my destination. The house was dark and gloomy, as it had been the night before. I entered the grounds and made a careful circuit of the place, but not a glimmer of light could I detect at any of the windows. There was nothing to indicate that any one was stirring, nor did I come upon any trace of Godfrey, though I half expected to collide with him at any moment. Plainly there was nothing to be discovered here, and at last I turned my steps toward the path which led to the cottage. Then suddenly I stopped, for it seemed to me that I had caught sight of a dim figure flitting among the trees. I was facing the street, and the glow from the arc lights there made a grey background against which I fancied I saw a shadow moving. I strained my eyes--yes--there it was again, approaching the house along the path. I am no more superstitious than most men, yet, for an instant, the notion seized me like an electric shock, that this was no earthly visitant. But I shook myself together, and leaned forward watching it from behind a sheltering tree. It went directly to the balcony steps, and mounted them with a swiftness which showed how familiar it was with the place. Had I been right in my conjecture, then? Had Marcia Lawrence really come home again? The question flashed through my brain like lightning. I had already delayed too much; it was time that I did something! In an instant I had gained the path and mounted the steps. One of the windows was open. I passed through it into the library. There was a sharp click and, in the sudden flare of light, I found myself looking down the barrel of a revolver, behind which glared the sinister face of Lucy Kingdon. CHAPTER XV A Battle of Wits I saw the swift spasm of hatred which crossed her face, as she recognised me; I even fancied that her finger tightened convulsively upon the trigger, and I braced myself for the shock. But she did not fire. Instead, she lowered her pistol with a grim little laugh. "So it's you!" she said, and stood looking at me, her lips curving maliciously. "Yes," I answered. "Who did you think it was?" "Oh, I don't know. A burglar, perhaps." "You seem to have been prepared for him." "I always carry this pistol when I go back and forth through the grounds at night." "And know how to use it, I dare say." "I think I'd be able to defend myself." "I'm sure of it. Do you often go back and forth at night?" "It's sometimes late when I get through here." "But this time," I pointed out, "you weren't leaving the house--you were returning to it."