"What is the meaning of this, Fenella?" he demanded. "Why am I fetched from my room in this manner? You, Chetwode? What are you doing here?" "I have brought Mrs. Weatherley home, sir," Arnold answered. "We noticed a light in her room and we made a discovery there. It looks as though there has been an attempted burglary within the last hour or so." "Which room?" Mr. Weatherley asked. "Which room? Is anything missing?" "Nothing, fortunately," Arnold replied. "The man, by some means or other, seems to have been hurt." "Where is he?" Mr. Weatherley demanded. "In my boudoir," Fenella replied. "We will all go. I have telephoned for a doctor." "A doctor? What for?" Mr. Weatherley inquired. "Who needs a doctor?" "The burglar, if he is a burglar," she explained, gently. "Don't you understand that all we found was a man, lying in the centre of the room? He has had a fall of some sort." "God bless my soul!" Mr. Weatherley said. "Well, come along, let's have a look at him." They trooped down the passage. Groves, waiting outside for them, opened the door. Mr. Weatherley, who was first, looked all around the apartment. "Where is this man?" he demanded. "Where is he?" [Illustration: "Where is this man?" he demanded. _Page 152_.] Arnold, who followed, was stricken speechless. Fenella gave a little cry. The couch had been wheeled back to its place. The body of the man had disappeared! "Where is the burglar?" Mr. Weatherley repeated, irritably. "Was there ever any one here? Who in the name of mischief left that window open?" The window through which Arnold had entered the room was now wide open. They hurried towards it. Outside, all was darkness. There was no sound of footsteps, no sign of any person about. Mr. Weatherley was distinctly annoyed. "I should have thought you would have had more sense, Chetwode," he said, testily. "You found a burglar here, and, instead of securing him properly, you send up to me and go ringing up for doctors, and in the meantime the man calmly slips off through the window." Arnold made no reply. Mr. Weatherley's words seemed to come from a long way off. He was looking at Fenella. "The man was dead!" he muttered. She, too, was white, but she shook her head. "We thought so," she answered. "We were wrong." Mr. Weatherley led the way to the front door. "As the dead man seems to have cleared out," he said, "without taking very much with him, I suggest that we go to bed. Groves had better ring up the doctor and stop him, if he can; if not, he must explain that he was sent for in error. Good night, Chetwode!" he added, pointedly. Arnold scarcely remembered his farewells. He passed out into the street and stood for several moments upon the pavement. He looked back at the house. "The man was dead or dying!" he muttered to himself. "What does it all mean?"