“Where does it lead to,” Klaw rumbled on, “that lane behind the studio?” “Tradesmen’s entrance to the next house.” “Whose house?” “Doctor Gleason.” “M.D.?” “Yes. But tell me, Mr. Klaw--tell me, have you any clue?” “My mind, Mr. Paxton, records for me that Nicris was not stolen away, but _walked!_ Plainly, I feel her go tiptoe, tiptoe, so silent and cautious! She is concerned, this barbaric dancing girl who escapes from your studio, with two things. One is some very big man. She thinks, as she tiptoes, of one very tall: six feet and three inches at least! So it is not of you she thinks, Mr. Paxton. We shall see of whom it is. Tell me the name of your acquaintance, the point-policeman.” We were all staring at Moris Klaw, spellbound with astonishment. But Paxton managed to mumble: “James--Constable James.” “We shall seek him, this James, at the section house of the police depot,” rumbled Klaw. “Be silent, Mr. Paxton; let no one know of your loss. And hope.” “I can see no ground for hope!” “No? But I? I recognize the clue, Mr. Paxton! What a great science is that of mental photography!” What did he mean? None of us could surmise, and I could see that poor Paxton reposed no faith whatever in the eccentric methods of the investigator. He would have voiced his doubts, I think, but he met a glance from the dark eyes of Isis Klaw which silenced him. “My child,” said Klaw to his daughter, “take the cushion and return. My negative is a clear one. You understand?” “Perfectly,” replied Isis, with composure. “Breakfast----” began Paxton, tentatively. But Moris Klaw waved his hands and enveloped himself in the big cloak. “There is no time for such gross matters!” he said. “We are busy.” From the brown bowler he took out a scent spray and bedewed his high, bald forehead with verbena. “It is exhausting, that odic photography!” he explained. Shortly afterward he and I walked around to the local police depot. Something occurred to me, en route. “By the way,” I said, “what was the other thing of which you spoke? The thing that you declared Nicris to be thinking of, though I don’t understand in the least how one can refer to the ‘thoughts’ of an ivory statue!” “Ah,” rumbled my companion, “it is something I shall explain later--that other fear of the missing one.” Arriving at the police depot, “Shall I ask for Constable James?” I said. “Ah, no,” replied Klaw. “It is for the constable that he relieved at twelve o’clock I am looking.” Inquiry showed that the latter officer--his name was Freeman--had just entered the section house. Moris Klaw’s questions elicited the following story, although its bearing upon the matter in hand was not evident to me.