"Where is it? No, you needn't speak yet, indicate where it is, and I'll get it." Iris nodded her head toward the desk, and the man went to it. He ran his fingers lightly over the various compartments, watching her the while, and as he touched one, she nodded. She had remembered a small packet of papers, pinned with an old and somewhat rusty pin, and she determined to pass this pin off on him, if she could make herself dramatically convincing. "I've always thought I could be an actress," the poor child said to herself, "now's my time to make good." So, by dint of indicative nods and glances, she easily made her visitor discover the packet and the pin. The papers were valueless, and the pin, which held a paper band round them, was an ordinary, dull, old-looking one. It was Iris' clever play of her eyes and her hands,--that betokened a great unwillingness to part with it, but did so under duress--that succeeded in making the thief believe it was the pin he was after. He scrutinized the papers, and threw them aside. "A good hiding-place," he said, putting the papers back where they had been. "As obvious as Poe's 'Purloined Letter.' I don't ask you if this is _the_ pin, for your speaking countenance has told me it is. I only bid you a very good evening." He rose quickly, and without a further glance at Iris, he turned off the electric light on the table, and she heard him step softly through the living room, and out of one of the low windows that gave on to the verandah. She sat where he had left her, not really in pain, but in some discomfort. Then, lifting her hands she managed to untie the handkerchief gag. It wasn't difficult, though the tight knot took a few moments to loosen. She was tempted to turn on the light, and look at the silk handkerchief still in her hand, but she feared her visitor might discover the fraud and return. She crept softly into the living room, closed and locked the window through which she had heard him go, and wondered whether it had been left unfastened or he had forced the catch. But that could wait till morning. She locked the living-room door on the hall side, for further safety, and returned to her room, determined to have additional bolts and bars attached here and there the next day. Then she remembered the house was not hers, and though she might suggest she could not dictate. Hours she lay awake, thinking it all over. In the security of her own room, she felt no fear and the dawn had begun to show before she slept. "He's a crazy man," she told herself, finally, just as, at last, slumber came to her. "But it's queer the same mania attacked two people at the same time." Next day she told Lucille Darrel the story. "No, I don't think he was crazy," Miss Darrel said, "I think he's an agent of that other man, and they wanted to find out if you had given the first man the right pin. You see, when you made the second man--what's his name, Ashton?----" "Yes, and the first was Pollock."