“He must have dropped the box as he was putting it on the bed,” said Tab thoughtfully. “You didn’t by any chance see him?” “I heard him go out about a quarter of an hour after I’d made a fuss,” said the man from downstairs, “and I was feeling so ashamed of myself for losing my temper that I opened the door to apologize for shouting at him.” “You didn’t see him?” The man shook his head. “He shut the door quick, just as I got into the passage. The only thing I saw was his hand on the edge of the door. He was wearing black gloves. Naturally I thought it was you, though the black gloves seemed to be a queer sort of thing for a young man to wear, even if he was in mourning, and taking it for granted that it was you, and that you were mad with me, I thought no more about it.” All this Tab duly reported to Carver. That ended the episode of Saturday. Sunday’s surprise was more pleasant but not less disturbing. It was late in the evening, and Tab was reading by the light of a table-lamp, when the bell which connected with the front door rang urgently. This meant that the front door was closed. On the night of Wellington Brown’s visit it was open. He unconsciously connected the two visitations and wondered whether his instinct was working as well as Carver could wish. Putting the book aside, he went down and opened the door, and nearly staggered in his astonishment, for his visitor was Ursula Ardfem, and her little car stood by the edge of the side-walk. “I am on my way to the Central,” she explained. “May I come in?” He had seen the two suit-cases strapped to the back of the car and had wondered to what distant and inaccessible spot she was bound. “Come in, please,” he said hastily. “I am afraid this room is rather smoky.” He made to pull up the blind, but she stopped him. “Please don’t,” she said, “I am all nerves and shivers and I feel I could swoon on the slightest excuse. It is rather a pity that that delightful practice of our grandmothers’ days went out of fashion. It would be such a relief to swoon sometimes.” Her tone was half-jesting, but there was a whole lot of seriousness in her face. “I am coming to live at the Central again,” she said, “though I really cannot afford that extravagance.” “What has happened?” “Stone Cottage is haunted,” was the staggering reply. “Haunted?” She nodded and a momentary smile came into her eyes, only to fade as quickly as it came. “Not by a ghost,” she said, “but by a very human man, a mysterious individual in black. The woman who looks after me saw him the other night in the garden: I myself have seen him from my window and challenged him. He has been seen by other people pacing the road outside. Now tell me honestly, Tab Holland, am I under the observation of the police?” The thought had also occurred to Tab. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Carver does not tell me everything, but he has never mentioned your name to me as being under the slightest suspicion. In black, you say?”