There was nothing we could say, and no one spoke. Again we turned to the curios in the cabinets, but as the moments passed and there was no sign of either our host or his housekeeper, we began to look at one another. It seemed very strange to be invited to dinner and not have our host welcome us. And we had seen no signs of him. There was not a sound in the house, and if it had not been that the housekeeper had let us in, we might have thought we were alone. And then, just as we began to wonder what we had better do, the housekeeper came into the room. It needed but a glance at her flushed face to tell that not only was she nervous, but also rather perplexed. She was a rather large woman with a determined face—a face which now looked very troubled. She must have known Carter, for she came across the room to his side and said: “Mr. Carter, my dinner has been waiting since seven o'clock. But Mr. Warren is not in the house.” He made the usual reply that one would make at such a remark, only to have the woman say: “He cannot have been delayed, for I know where he is.” I saw a keen look come into Ranville's eyes as he turned to look at the woman. She stood before us twisting the corner of her apron with nervous fingers. But it was Carter who asked: “You know where he is?” The housekeeper hesitated for a second, then replied: “Yes. He is in his library. You know, Mr. Carter, that his study and library is in that stone building on the hill. He spends his afternoons there writing on his new book. I know he went there this afternoon. And—” the voice trailed off into silence. “And what?” came Ranville's low voice. The woman raised her head and her eyes swept over the three of us. There was not only a look of anxiety in them but, I thought, also a trace of fear. But why there should be the last I failed to understand. But fear there was. She started to speak, hesitated a second, as if she did not wish to put into words what was in her mind, and then suddenly said in a voice which shook a little: “Only—I don't know what to say. I have called up his library a dozen times, and he does not answer. I went down to the building and called his name, but no answer. Then I tried the door, and it was locked—and he never locks the door when he is working. Then I pounded on the door, but still no one said anything in reply. And—” Once again came silence, and the look of fear crept again across her face. She gave us one bewildered appealing look and wailed: “He ought to be in his library. I know he was there, but he won't answer the phone, and he did not come to the door. And when I knocked I thought—” For a moment she paused again. For some reason none of us spoke. Our eyes were upon the frightened face of the woman, whose nervous fingers were never still. And then all at once she lifted her head and completed the sentence. “And when I knocked at the door, I thought I heard something move inside the library.” Chapter II The Crooked Cross