He didn’t know who the man was who had given Judy the letter--except, of course, that it wasn’t Bruce. He’d barely glimpsed him out of the corner of his eye. There was something secret and hasty about the whole episode that didn’t go with his idea of Judy. What he hated worst about it was the look in her face that disputed with the fright in it. He was sunk so deep in a brown study that his mother caught him without difficulty and sent him to bed. But it wasn’t so easy to send him to sleep. The music went on and on, floating in through his open window, nagging his jangled nerves. It was punctuated, too, by disconcerting little fragments of talk coming up astonishingly clear now and then from the strollers on the lawn. Nothing that meant anything; just broken phrases, exclamations, giggles. It annoyed him that people could be so horribly silly. He must have drifted off, though, at last, for he sat up suddenly in bed, bolt awake from an unreasonably unpleasant dream. The party must be over and everybody gone to bed, for the house was silent, except, he noted with disgust, for the grumble of conversation that was going on in the adjoining bedroom. Bill Grant’s it was, and he imagined he identified the other voice, that was doing most of the talking, as Bruce Applebury’s. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He was afraid though that if they talked any louder he might hear. He lay down again and turned and tossed. No hope of getting asleep till they stopped. Finally, in desperation he got up, padded softly out through the billiard room to a near-by bathroom, got himself a drink and splashed his hot face with cold water. This refreshed him somewhat, but he didn’t want to go back to his room. The big davenport in the hall, one flight down, occurred to him as a quieter, and perhaps cooler, place to sleep. He wouldn’t need any covers. It was too hot a night. So with infinite precautions against noise he stole down there. He’d meant to sleep there anyway if the necklace had not already been stolen. It wasn’t very dark down there in the second-floor hall. It had two big windows at one end and an enormous one above the stair-landing at the other. And the big moon still had everything her own way in the cloudless sky. In spite of his precautions against making any noise, he did make one. In the process of disposing the pillows on the davenport, he dropped one on the floor with a plop. A moment or two later Judy’s door opened, and she asked, in a clear, penetrating whisper, “Who’s that?” “I dropped a pillow,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” “You!” she said. She came over to the davenport and stood looking down at him. She had on the same orange-colored kimono that she’d worn when she went to her grandmother’s room before dinner. “What are you doing down here?” she asked. “Still keeping watch?” “It was stuffy up in my room,” he explained, “and I couldn’t sleep.”