“Robbery!” repeated Paxton, looking at me strangely; “you would be less confident that it is a case of robbery, Searles, if you had heard what I heard!” I glanced at Coram, but he merely shrugged his shoulders. “What do you mean?” I said. “Then Coram has not told you?” “He has told me that something aroused you in the night and that you left the studio to investigate the matter.” “Correct, so far. Something did arouse me; and the thing was a voice!” “A voice?” “It would be, I suppose, about two hours after you had gone, and I was soundly asleep in the studio, when I suddenly awoke and sat up to listen, for it seemed to me that I heard a cry immediately outside the door.” “What kind of cry?” “Of that I was not, at first, by any means certain; but after a brief interval the cry was repeated. It sounded more like the voice of a boy than that of a man and it uttered but one word: ‘Nicris!’” “And then?” “I sprang on to the floor and stood for a moment in doubt--the thing seemed so uncanny. The electric light is not, as you know, installed in the studio, or I should have certainly switched it on. For possibly a minute I hesitated, and then, as I pulled the curtains aside and stood by the door to listen, for the third time the cry was repeated and was now coming indisputably from immediately outside.” “You refer to the door that opens on to the garden?” “Exactly--close to which stands my bed. This, then, decided me. Taking up the small revolver which I have always kept handy since Nicris was completed, I unlocked the door and stepped out into the garden----” A vehicle, cab or car, was heard to draw up outside the house. Came the sound of a rumbling voice. Coram sprang to the door. “Moris Klaw!” I cried. “Good morning, Mr. Coram!” said the strange voice, from the darkness outside. “Good morning, Mr. Searles!” Moris Klaw entered. He wore his flat-topped brown bowler of effete pattern; he wore his long, shabby, caped coat; and from beneath it gleamed the pointed glossy toe-caps of his continental boots. Through his gold-rimmed glasses he peered into the shadows of the hall. His scanty, colourless beard appeared less adequate than ever to clothe the massive chin. The dim light rendered his face more cadaverous and more yellow even than usual. “And this,” he proceeded, as the anxious sculptor came forward, “is Mr. Paxton, who has lost his statue? Good morning, Mr. Paxton!” He bowed, removing the bowler and revealing his great high brow. Coram was about to reclose the door. “Ah, no!” Moris Klaw checked him. “My daughter is to come yet with my cushion!” Paxton stared, not comprehending, but stared yet harder when Isis Klaw appeared, carrying a huge red cushion. She was wrapped in a cloak which effectually concealed her lithe figure, and from the raised hood her darkly beautiful face looked out with bewitching effect. She divided between Coram and myself one of her dazzling smiles.