“There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,” he declared. “I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.” The manager made a gesture of concern. “I’m sorry to hear your news,” he said gravely. “Are you properly insured?” “Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.” He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr. Cheyne, it may not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let our arrangement stand.” “I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a copy of the analyst’s report?” “Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.” Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just ten minutes before eleven. As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and in charge. But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in the drawing room, and thither he at once betook himself. Mrs. Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a little cry of pleasure. “Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,” she cried. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?” “I don’t know, mother,” Cheyne answered cheerily, “that depends. I hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?” “Nothing!” Mrs. Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt. “Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is missing.” “Unless something may have been taken from your safe,” Agatha interposed. “Was there much in it?”