For a moment Dick Fleming stared at her as if he could not believe his ears. Then, slowly, his expression changed. Beneath the well-fed, debonair mask of the clubman about town, other lines appeared—lines of avarice and calculation—wolf-marks, betokening the craft and petty ruthlessness of the small soul within the gentlemanly shell. His eyes took on a shifty, uncertain stare—they no longer looked at Dale—their gaze seemed turned inward, beholding a visioned treasure, a glittering pile of gold. And yet, the change in his look was not so pronounced as to give Dale pause—she felt a vague uneasiness steal over her, true—but it would have taken a shrewd and long-experienced woman of the world to read the secret behind Fleming’s eyes at first glance—and Dale, for all her courage and common sense, was a young and headstrong girl. She watched him, puzzled, wondering why he made no comment on her last statement. “Do you know where there are any blue-prints of the house?” she asked at last. An odd light glittered in Fleming’s eyes for a moment. Then it vanished—he held himself in check—the casual idler again. “Blue-prints?” He seemed to think it over. “Why—there may be some. Have you looked in the old secretary in the library? My uncle used to keep all sorts of papers there,” he said with apparent helpfulness. “Why, don’t you remember—you locked it when we took the house.” “So I did.” Fleming took out his key ring, selected a key. “Suppose you go and look,” he said. “Don’t you think I’d better stay here?” “Oh, _yes_—” said Dale, blinded to everything else by the rising hope in her heart. “Oh, I can hardly thank you enough!” and before he could even reply, she had taken the key and was hurrying toward the hall door. He watched her leave the room, a bleak smile on his face. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, his languor dropped from him. He became a hound—a ferret—questing for its prey. He ran lightly over to the bookcase by the hall door—a moment’s inspection—he shook his head. Perhaps the other bookcase near the French windows—no—it wasn’t there. Ah, the bookcase over the fireplace! He remembered now! He made for it, hastily swept the books from the top shelf, reached groping fingers into the space behind the second row of books. There! A dusty roll of three blue-prints! He unrolled them hurriedly and tried to make out the white tracings by the light of the fire—no—better take them over to the candle on the table.