With infinite care they crept into what seemed to be a passage and listened. Not a sound was audible. If ever a house was deserted, Mr. Priestley reflected, surely this one was. A small hand clutched one of his, and he clutched back. They began to move soundlessly down the dark passage. A penetrating squeak brought Mr. Priestley’s heart for a moment into his mouth. Then he saw that the girl had opened a door on the right of the passage. Through the aperture a pair of French windows on the farther side of a fair-sized room was faintly illuminated by the moonlight. “This is the library,” said the girl in a low voice and drew him inside, closing the door behind them. Mr. Priestley’s first action was the result of his ponderings. One item of criminal lore at least he had remembered—always provide for your way of escape! He walked swiftly across the room and opened the French windows. “Oh, Mr. Mullins!” exclaimed the girl with soft admiration, when, not without pride, Mr. Priestley had explained the reason for his action. “What a thing it is to have an experienced burglar to help me. I should never have done that by myself.” Mr. Priestley began to think that perhaps he would not have made such a bad burglar after all. “Now, then, where does he keep those letters?” he asked, in brisk, businesslike tones. “In one of the drawers of the writing-table,” said the girl softly. “Would it be safe to turn on the light, do you think?” “No!” replied Mr. Priestley with firmness. “It wouldn’t.” “Did you bring an electric torch?” “Er—no, I’m afraid I didn’t.” “Well, just strike a match, and I’ll show you the drawer.” It was against Mr. Priestley’s instincts of preservation, but he complied. The flaring match gave him a brief glimpse of a big, comfortable room, and Mrs. Spettigue standing in front of a large writing-desk against one wall. Then it died down and Mr. Priestley prudently extinguished it. “Did you see?” came the girl’s voice. “This one—second from the top on the right-hand side. It’s locked, unfortunately.” “Bother!” said Mr. Priestley with feeling. How on earth did one tackle a locked drawer? Ah, of course! “Do you think you could get me the poker, if there is one?” he asked, feeling his way over to the table. He heard the girl move across the room and a minute later a stout bar of iron was in his hands. He touched the drawer with it tentatively. Nothing much happened. “Bother!” said Mr. Priestley again. “What a pity you didn’t bring your tools, after all,” observed Mrs. Spettigue in a thoughtful voice. Mr. Priestley gave the drawer a smart rap. The noise which resulted seemed as if it must have awakened the Seven Sleepers. Mr. Priestley hurriedly abandoned this method of approach. “I think perhaps, if we——!” He broke off abruptly, for at that moment the electric light flooded the room and a gruff voice remarked, in somewhat jerky tones, “Ah, Chicago Kate—er—um—I suppose? I was—er—um—expecting you.”