“That Jap rang the phone,” he said decisively. “Miss Van Gorder believes that this murder is the culmination of the series of mysterious happenings that caused her to send for me. I do not.” “Then what is the significance of the anonymous letters?” broke in Miss Cornelia heatedly. “Of the man Lizzie saw going up the stairs, of the attempt to break into this house—of the ringing of that telephone bell?” Anderson replied with one deliberate word. “Terrorization,” he said. The Doctor moistened his dry lips in an effort to speak. “By whom?” he asked. Anderson’s voice was an icicle. “I imagine by Miss Van Gorder’s servants. By that woman there—” he pointed at Lizzie, who rose indignantly to deny the charge. But he gave her no time for denial. He rushed on, “—who probably writes the letters,” he continued. “By the gardener—” his pointing finger found Bailey “—who may have been the man Lizzie saw slipping up the stairs. By the Jap, who goes out and rings the telephone,” he concluded triumphantly. Miss Cornelia seemed unimpressed by his fervor. “With what object?” she queried smoothly. “That’s what I’m going to find out!” There was determination in Anderson’s reply. Miss Cornelia sniffed. “Absurd! The butler was in this room when the telephone rang for the first time.” The thrust pierced Anderson’s armor. For once he seemed at a loss. Here was something he had omitted from his calculations. But he did not give up. He was about to retort when—crash! thud!—the noise of a violent struggle in the hall outside drew all eyes to the hall door. An instant later the door slammed open and a disheveled young man in evening clothes was catapulted into the living-room as if slung there by a giant’s arm. He tripped and fell to the floor in the center of the room. Billy stood in the doorway behind him, inscrutable, arms folded, on his face an expression of mild satisfaction as if he were demurely pleased with a neat piece of housework, neatly carried out. The young man picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, sought for his hat, which had rolled under the table. Then he turned on Billy furiously. “Damn you—what do you mean by this?” “Jiu-jitsu,” said Billy, his yellow face quite untroubled. “Pretty good stuff. Found on terrace with searchlight,” he added. “With searchlight?” barked Anderson. The young man turned to face this new enemy. “Well, why shouldn’t I be on the terrace with a searchlight?” he demanded. The detective moved toward him menacingly. “Who _are_ you?” “Who are you?” said the young man with cool impertinence, giving him stare for stare. Anderson did not deign to reply, in so many words. Instead he displayed the police badge which glittered on the inside of the right lapel of his coat. The young man examined it coolly. “H’m,” he said. “Very pretty—nice neat design—very chaste!” He took out a cigarette case and opened it, seemingly entirely unimpressed by both the badge and Anderson. The detective chafed.