I had promised to take Mrs. Furneau for a drive that morning. We started about ten. She was in a frivolous and entertaining mood, and told me that she had informed Mrs. Fawcette of her engagement to drive with me. I thoroughly enjoyed the drive, and it was after twelve o’clock when I reached my apartment again. To my surprise, my latch-key was not in the usual pocket, and after a short search I rang the bell, fuming. To my amazement, however, no one came. I was furious. I had distinctly told Larry to stay home that morning and it seemed that he had disobeyed orders. I waited a few moments, ringing again at intervals, in the thought that he might be washing up and have his hands full. But after about five minutes I went back and rang for the elevator, to question the operator, idly running through my pockets as I waited. Almost at the same moment that the elevator reached my floor, my fingers closed on my latch-key, in my vest pocket. How it got there I have no idea. “Did my man go out?” I asked the boy. “There does not seem to be any one there.” “No, sir, not that I know of. Haven’t you got your key?” “Yes, I just found it,” I told him. “Has any one been here for me?” “No, sir.” “Have you been running the elevator all morning?” “Yes, sir.” “All right. Sorry to have bothered you.” “That’s all right, sir.” The door slammed and the elevator went down again. I turned back to my front door and fitted the key in the lock. I was vaguely uneasy, and it was that, perhaps, that caused me to open the door very softly, close it again as softly and stand listening a moment. There was no sound in the place, but after a moment or two I became aware of the fact that there were faint traces of a lingering perfume in the air, a scent highly feminine and vaguely familiar. What on earth could it mean? I wondered. For, so far as I knew, no woman had crossed my threshold since I took the apartment. Perhaps Larry—— I walked down the hall and into my living-room. It seemed to me, as I advanced, that there were sounds of hasty movement just before I reached it. But at first glance the room seemed to be unoccupied and nothing appeared to be disturbed. Then I looked again more carefully, and I noticed that the curtain in front of my window was swaying slightly, although the window was closed. It was exactly the same curtain, incidentally, behind which my earlier visitor—and Moore’s victim—had hidden himself. The scent of perfume was stronger here, however, and I was pretty sure that the curtain concealed a woman this time. I began to whistle suddenly and strode into the room. I picked up some papers on the table and flung them down again. Then I broke into speech: “Confound that boy, anyway,” I muttered.