“I do,” said Brooks decidedly. “I don’t think Fleming took it away with him. He was too shrewd for that. No, he meant to come back all right, the minute he got the word the bank had been looted. And he’d fixed things so I’d be railroaded to prison—you wouldn’t understand, but it was pretty neat. And then the fool nephew rents this house the minute he’s dead, and whoever knows about the money—” “Jack! Why isn’t it the nephew who is trying to break in?” “He wouldn’t _have_ to break in. He could make an excuse and come in any time.” He clenched his hands despairingly. “If I could only get hold of a blue-print of this place!” he muttered. Dale’s face fell. It was sickening to be so close to the secret—and yet not find it. “Oh, Jack, I’m so confused and worried!” she confessed, with a little sob. Brooks put his hands on her shoulders in an effort to cheer her spirits. “Now listen, dear,” he said firmly, “this isn’t as hard as it sounds. I’ve got a clear night to work in—and as true as I’m standing here, that money’s in this house. Listen, honey—it’s like this.” He pantomimed the old nursery rhyme of _The House that Jack Built_, “Here’s the house that Courtleigh Fleming built—here, somewhere, is the Hidden Room in the house that Courtleigh Fleming built—and here—somewhere—pray Heaven—is the money—in the Hidden Room—in the house that Courtleigh Fleming built. When you’re low in your mind, just say that over!” She managed a faint smile. “I’ve forgotten it already,” she said, drooping. He still strove for an offhand gaiety that he did not feel. “Why, look here!” and she followed the play of his hands obediently, like a tired child, “it’s a sort of game, dearest. ‘Money, money—who’s got the money?’ _You_ know!” For the dozenth time he stared at the unrevealing walls of the room. “For that matter,” he added, “the Hidden Room may be behind these very walls.” He looked about for a tool, a poker, anything that would sound the walls and test them for hollow spaces. Ah, he had it—that driver in the bag of golf clubs over in the corner. He got the driver and stood wondering where he had best begin. That blank wall above the fireplace looked as promising as any. He tapped it gently with the golf club—afraid to make too much noise and yet anxious to test the wall as thoroughly as possible. A dull, heavy reverberation answered his stroke—nothing hollow there apparently. As he tried another spot, again thunder beat the long roll on its iron drum outside, in the night. The lights blinked—wavered—recovered. “The lights are going out again,” said Dale dully, her excitement sunk into a stupefied calm. “Let them go! The less light the better for me. The only thing to do is to go over this house room by room.” He pointed to the billiard room door. “What’s in there?” “The billiard room.” She was thinking hard. “Jack! Perhaps Courtleigh Fleming’s nephew would know where the blue-prints are!”