Then Stokes must know. They had had opportunity for private conference in that hour after the murder when the others were out of the house. She had either told him or he had accused her; for all they knew he might have seen her do it. Anyway she wanted to get speech with him and it might be support, counsel, the matching up of their stories--but whatever it was she must have been in dire straights to take such a risk. Williams smoked on, comfortably sprawled in the deep chair, thinking out a line of attack on the Stokeses. XI THE night search of the island had given up nothing and a daylight exploration was set for the morning. Before this, however, Rawson wanted to go through Miss Saunders’ room, which by his orders had been locked and left untouched. It occupied the corner of the second floor directly above the library, the first of the long line of bedchambers that stretched across the land front of the house. Their doors opened upon a hall that traversed the building from end to end, its central section forming one side of the gallery. In her short stay the girl seemed to have impressed the place with her dainty charm. It was beauty’s bower, a bright and scented nest, chintz bung, with white fur rugs on the floor and silken cushions which bore the impress of her light weight. Steeped in the morning sun, warm and still, it extended its welcome as if waiting for her entrance. The signs of feminine occupation caught the eyes of the men and held them chilled on the threshold. Enhancements of her beauty were strewn on the bureau, the garments that had clothed her graceful body lay on the bed where her hand had thrown them. A delicate perfume filled the air, the fragrance of her passing habitation still lingering in ghostlike sweetness after the living presence had gone. Rawson moved first, shaking off the spell. He looked into the open wardrobe trunk, completely packed but for the last hanger. “Going to put her costume there,” he said, touching it with his index finger. He pulled out the drawers and ran his eye over their contents. A gray crêpe dress lay across the foot of the bed, beside it a cloak and a black hat with a water-lily garnishing the brim. “These,” he said, “were the clothes left out to wear.” Bassett nodded. He could see Sybil in the gray dress with her hair a golden fluff below the edge of the black hat. She had worn them on the way up and been pleased when he had admired her costume. They went over the desk; a few postage stamps and a writing tablet. But the desk had evidently not been used--the square of new blotting paper in the carved leather holder was unmarked. The waste-paper basket only contained a torn veil and the wrapper of a package of hair pins. On the bed-table was a book and a candy box containing two chocolate bonbons.