An hour later Rodgers, his cuts treated by Dr. McLean, and finally left alone by a too-solicitous policeman, went down into the basement of the apartment house. He had no difficulty in locating the opening to the dumb-waiter shaft. Looking inside, he found it empty. "What is it, Mr. Rodgers?" inquired the janitor's wife, a young colored girl who acted as laundress for the tenants. "I'm looking for a red coat which I accidentally dropped down the chute, Cora," Rodgers explained. "Mercy, Sir, I wish I'd known that was yours," she exclaimed. "It was on top of a pile of trash and was so raggety that I just put the whole business in the furnace." Rodgers stared at her aghast, then, collecting his wits, he dashed by her and into the furnace room. The light from a hot fire half blinded him as he flung open the furnace door. Lying on the flagging close to the opening was a portion of the red coat--the rest was ashes. Rodgers jerked out the piece of red cloth, and flinging it on the cement floor, stamped out the smoldering flames. Paying no attention to Cora's lamentations, he hurried upstairs, the precious piece in his hand. Once more in his apartment and with the door safely locked, he dropped down on the lounge and regarded all that remained of the coat, as his thoughts returned to Oscar and his fervid request that he "find Miss Kitty's red coat." In what way was the red coat involved in the mystery of Miss Baird's death? Why had the dealer in second-hand clothes wished so ardently to buy it back? How had it gotten into his hands in the first place? Above all, why did Ben Potter wish to gain possession of it? Rodgers' head swam with the effort to find an answer to the enigma. Sinking back against the cushions, he ran his hand over the piece of red cloth. It was the front breadth of the coat and its patch pocket that had remained intact. As Rodgers' fingers strayed inside the pocket his thoughts turned to Kitty Baird--beautiful Kitty Baird--his best beloved. His restless fingers closed over a small wad of paper pressed deep in the coat pocket. A second later he had smoothed out the paper and, carrying it to the light, strove to read the writing upon it. A whistle escaped him. "An 'I.O.U.,'" he exclaimed. "Devil take it, the signature's undecipherable!" CHAPTER XII A WORD OF WARNING Kitty Baird regarded the butler with astonishment. "Mrs. Parsons is not at home," she repeated. "Why, Oscar brought me a telephone message from her asking me to be here at noon and to lunch with her." She consulted her watch. "Are you quite certain that she is not in, James?" "Quite, Miss Kitty." The butler's solemnity of manner matched his severe black clothes, which fitted his somewhat spare form with the neatness of a glove. "Mrs. Parsons had forgotten a meeting of the Neighborhood House Committee, and she left word that she was very sorry to put you out. She said that she had no idea what time she would be back, and that you were not to wait for her."