Her supreme self-possession and tone of finality silenced the artist. So far as I could see, everything in the studio was exactly as before, save that Nicris’s throne was vacant. The top of the studio was partially glazed, and Moris Klaw peered up at it earnestly. “From above,” he rumbled, “I should wish to look down into below. How do I reach it?” “The only stepladder is that in the studio,” answered Paxton. “I will bring it out.” He did so. The gray light of dawn was creeping into the sky, and against that sombre background we watched Moris Klaw crawling about the roof like some giant spider. “Did you find anything?” asked Paxton, anxiously, as the investigator descended. “I find what I look for,” was the reply; “and no man is entitled to find more. Isis, my child, place that cushion in the ebony chair.” The girl stepped on to the dais, and disposed the red cushion as directed. “You see,” explained Morris Klaw, “whoever has robbed you, Mr. Paxton, runs some one great danger, however clever his plans. There is, in every criminal scheme, one little point that only Fate can decide--either to hitch or to smooth out--to bring success and riches or whistling policemen and Brixton Gaol! Upon that so critical point his or her mind will concentrate at the critical moment. The critical moment, here, was that of getting Nicris out of your studio. “I sleep upon that throne where she reclined--the ivory dancer. This sensitive plate”--he tapped his brow--“will reproduce a negative of that critical moment as it seemed in the mind of the one we look for. Isis, return in the cab that waits and be here again at six o’clock.” He placed his quaint bowler upon a table and laid beside it his black cloak. Then, a ramshackle figure in shabby tweed, reclined upon the big ebony chair, his head against the cushion. “Place my cloak about me, Isis.” The girl did so. “Good morning, my child! Good morning, Mr. Searles! Good morning, Mr. Coram and Mr. Paxton!” He closed his eyes. “Excuse me,” began Paxton. Isis placed her finger to her lips, and signed to us to withdraw silently. “Ssh!” she whispered. “He is asleep!” III At five minutes to six sounded Isis Klaw’s ring upon the door bell. Paxton, Coram, and I had spent the interval in discussing the apparently supernatural happening which threatened to wreak the artist’s ruin. Again and again he had asked us, “Should I call in the Scotland Yard people? If Moris Klaw fails, consider the priceless time lost!” “If Moris Klaw fails,” Coram assured him, “no one else will succeed!” We admitted Isis, who wore now a smart tweed costume and a fashionable hat. Beyond doubt, Isis Klaw was strikingly beautiful. At the door of the studio stood her father, staring straight up to the morning sky, as though by astrological arts he hoped to solve the mystery. “What time does your model come?” he asked, ere Paxton could question him. “Half-past ten. But, Mr. Klaw----” began our anxious friend.