We found nothing, that is, nothing of any importance to our search. One of the rooms showed evidences of recent feminine occupancy. But there was no one in the apartment—that was certain. A good deal relieved, I returned to the front hall, stationed Larry in the alcove there, and made my way to Vining’s desk in the front room. Chapter IX The First Skirmish To my disappointment, there was very little in the desk. A few old letters, an invitation or two, some receipts and a couple of blank income-tax return forms were all that my first search revealed. But having come there with so much difficulty, I was determined to find it, if there were anything to be found, and going through the desk more carefully a second time disclosed something that might be more valuable. It was a tiny account book; I found it in a little hollow under the blotter. I studied it for a moment there in the silence, by the aid of my little torch, and presently received a shock. For it was half full of names, and these included several of the people whom I knew. After each name was a series of dates, followed by single figures, so that a single entry read something like this: Emily Horton: August 11—2. August 15—3. August 17—2, etc. Suddenly there was a tiny sound from the hall outside, and I instinctively switched off my torch and slipped the little book into my pocket. I turned toward the doorway, which lay in shadow. Then I became conscious that my heart was pounding heavily, for I could see that something was moving in the shadowy corner. “Hands up!” I was blinking in a glare of blinding light, from the suddenly illuminated chandelier, my hands high above my head, and staring into the unwavering muzzle of a large and efficient-looking automatic. The owner of the gun stood just inside the doorway, with two other men flanking him on either side—and a very determined and formidable trio they looked. In the pause that followed I had time to recognize Vining, from Moore’s description, as the man with the gun. I had also time to wonder what had become of my reënforcements in the shape of Larry. Obviously the next move was in either his hands or Vining’s, for I was effectually covered. “Drop one hand and take off that mask!” Vining snapped. I was silent and made no move. “Won’t, eh?” he snarled. “Don’t forget that I’m perfectly justified in killing you where you stand. Just a little pull on this”—he curled his finger suggestively around the trigger for my benefit—“and you’ll be very little trouble, my friend. Are you going to take it off?”