“I’m afraid I’ve brought you on a long job,” he said. “She may be out for hours.” Leaving her for a moment in the passage, he ran upstairs to his room, intending to show her one of his small treasures, the photograph of his dead father. He reached the head of the stairs and then stopped aghast. The door of the mysterious locked room which adjoined his own was wide open, and when he strode in he saw it was empty. Mrs. Inglethorne was a quick worker, and, in the space of time between his departure and his return, had removed all evidence of her guilt. He went into his own room, pulled open the drawer of the table where he kept his few treasures, and had taken out the small leather-covered portfolio when he saw some writing on the pad--a few scribbled words in a childish hand: “She has taken me away. Elizabeth.” He tore off the corner of the blotting paper and went back to the girl. “I was afraid of this,” she said in a low voice. “Do you remember the cry ‘lady’ as we passed the motor van? Where is the nearest telephone booth?” At the corner of the street was a little general shop, which had a telephone sign, and Leslie almost ran to the shop. There was some delay before the instrument was disengaged, but in a few minutes she was connected with Scotland Yard and was talking to Coldwell. “The number of the car is X.Y. 63369,” she said. “There is no doubt whatever that it contains stolen property, but it is the little girl I want.” “I’ll send out a call,” was Coldwell’s reply. “We may not pick it up before to-night; on the other hand, we may be lucky.” “Where are you going now?” asked Peter when they were outside the shop. “Back to the house,” said Leslie. “I want to look at that room.” “They cleared everything.” She nodded. “Thieves in a hurry are very careless people, and perhaps Mrs. Inglethorne isn’t so clever as she imagines.” The room was apparently bare; the only article of furniture it contained was a long table, and by the dust marks on this Leslie was able to judge the extent of the property that had been stored. On either side of the rusty fireplace was a cupboard. One of these she opened and found empty, except for a little heap of rubbish at the bottom. The second, however, was locked. With a table knife borrowed from the kitchen she forced back the catch and pulled open the door. There was nothing very much there, but enough. There were three bolts of silk, one still bearing the label of the wholesaler from whom it had been stolen. “Thieves in a hurry are very careless,” she said, with the light of battle in her eyes, “and it really doesn’t matter whether Mrs. Inglethorne is hanged for a sheep or a lamb, so long as she’s well and truly hanged!”