After a moment I left the room and tramped down the hall to Larry’s room. There was no sign of him anywhere. I found his revolver, ready loaded, slipped it into my pocket, tramped down the hall, opened the front door again and slammed it—from the inside. Then I tiptoed silently back to the living-room door, keeping out of sight, and waited. I felt that it was as important to find out what my unconventional visitor wanted there as to find out her identity. But what had become of Larry puzzled me more. It was so unlike him to disobey orders. For perhaps five minutes there was absolute silence in the room outside of which I stood. Then at last I heard a faint rustle and the swish of skirts. This was followed by the crackle of papers. I stepped into the doorway, revolver in hand. A woman it was. She had her back to me and was bending over my table, running through the papers and letters on it with quick, nervous fingers. Suddenly she turned her head a little and I started and slipped the revolver into my pocket. My unconventional visitor was Mrs. Fawcette. The blood rushed to my head. It was too much of a coincidence. It was to Mrs. Fawcette’s house that Margaret had gone that terrible day. It was Mrs. Fawcette’s friend that served drugged tea to—I winced—beautiful young visitors. It was common knowledge that the woman herself took drugs, though no one knew exactly what. And now she was here, searching my rooms. For a moment I wondered whether I could startle her and perhaps frighten the truth out of her. But I decided that she was far too clever a woman for that. Besides, the whole thing was too big, and it would be better for our search if I could disarm her obvious suspicion instead. I leaned against the doorpost and coughed quietly. I could at least hear what she had to say. My visitor whirled about with a suppressed scream, her face as white as chalk and her eyes black and wide with terror. “You!” she cried. “My dear Mrs. Fawcette,” I answered, bowing. “This is awfully sweet of you. But I’m afraid that it is a little indiscreet.” One hand flew to her heart and she leaned back against the table. For a moment I thought that she was going to collapse. But she conquered her momentary faintness and forced something approaching a smile. “You frightened me so,” she gasped. “When—when did you come back?” “Just now,” I answered. “I’m terribly sorry if I frightened you. But I was so surprised to see you, you know. And what in the world has become of my man?” She hesitated and glanced around the room wildly for an instant as though searching for a chance to escape. “I—I don’t know. I found the front door was open and I came in to find you. But there was no one here at all.” “I see,” I answered gently. “Now won’t you sit down and tell me what I can do for you? Surely we’re too old friends for you to be so frightened now?” I paused. “Can I get you a drink?”