“I’d better keep them in my safe,” he said. “I don’t want the servants to see them.” He crossed the hall, unlocked the door of the library and went in, mechanically switching on the light, and only then remembering that for the time being Fossaway Manor was denied the service of the little power house. He went back to the study and got his lamp and picked his way across the room to the desk. The envelope was where he had put it, and he slipped this into his pocket. As he did so, he was aware that a cold wind was blowing. He sent his light along the windows. That at the end was open; one of the curtains, which had been drawn across lay in a heap on the ground. He went to the door and called Puttler softly and the detective joined him. “Somebody has been here,” he said, and pointed to the curtain and the twisted pole that had supported it. It was easy to see how the intruder had made his way into the library. Two of the panes near the iron handle which fastened one leaf of the window had been broken, and evidently the midnight visitor, in entering, must have fallen and, catching hold of the curtain to save himself, brought it to the ground, breaking away the pole which was hanging drunkenly. “I passed here ten minutes ago, and the window was shut then,” said Puttler. “He may have been inside at the moment,” replied Dick thoughtfully. “I wonder what has been taken?” He examined the desk. Evidently the intruder had not opened any of the drawers, though, if he had done so, his labours would have been in vain, since Dick had cleared every document out of the room early in the day. As they circulated the room, Puttler stumbled over something. “Where did this come from?” he asked. It was a light ladder, and Dick recognized it as one of two that were part of the library furniture, and was employed to reach books from the top shelf of the lower tier. “When I saw this last it was standing at the end of the room,” he said. He flashed his lamp up on to the shelves, looking for a gap in the long line of books. So doing, his lamp swept across that space intervening between the shelves which was covered by the portrait of the late Lady Chelford. He could see the big gold frame, caught a glimpse of one white hand hanging gracefully, and then something brought his lamp back. He heard the churchwarden detective swear softly. Himself, he was speechless. The light of his lamp focussed on the place where the woman’s face had been, and where now was a black emptiness. The face and shoulders of the picture had been cut from the frame, and the ragged strands of canvas told him that it had been cut by an unskilful hand. L Neither man spoke until they were back in the little study, and then Puttler looked gloomily at his companion. “What do you make of that?” “Heaven knows!” groaned Dick. The study door was closed, and he had pulled across a dark curtain which had been hung that day for the purpose.