"A sophisticated brush; no amateur's job," Hood muttered, squinting at the canvas. "Seems to me I've seen that sort of thing somewhere lately--Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, and Clown--latest fad in magazine covers. We're in the studio of a popular illustrator--there's a bunch of proofs on the table, and those things on the floor are from the same hand. Signature in the corner a trifle obscure--Mary B. Taylor." "She may be Babette," Deering suggested. "Suppose I call her and ask?" Hood, having become absorbed in a portfolio of pen-and-ink sketches of clowns, harlequins, and columbines, subjects in which the owner of the studio apparently specialized, paid no heed to the suggestion. When Deering returned he was gazing critically at a sketch showing a dozen clowns executing a spirited dance on a garden-wall. "She's skipped! There isn't a soul on the place," Deering announced dejectedly. "Not at all surprising; probably gone to join her model, Pierrette. And we'd better clear out before we learn too much; life ceases to be interesting when you begin to find the answers to riddles. Pierrette is probably a friend of the artist, and plays model for the fun of it. The same girl is repeated over and over again in these drawings--from which I argue that Pierrette likes to pose and Babette enjoys painting her. We mustn't let this affect the general illusion. The next turn of the road will doubtless bring us to something that can't be explained so easily." "If it doesn't bring us to Pierrette--" began Deering. "Tut! None of that! For all you know it may bring us to something infinitely better. Remember that this is mid-May, and anything may happen before June kindles the crimson ramblers. Let us be off." Half-way across the living-room Deering stopped suddenly. "My bag--my suitcase!" he shouted. A suitcase it was beyond question, placed near the door as though to arrest their attention. Deering pounced upon it eagerly and flung it open. "It's all right--the stuff's here!" he cried huskily. He began throwing out the packets that filled the case, glancing hurriedly at the seals. Hood lounged near, watching him languidly. "Most unfortunate," he remarked, noting the growing satisfaction on Deering's face as he continued his examination. "Now that you've found that rubbish, I suppose there'll be no holding you; you'll go back to listen to the ticker just when I had begun to have some hope of you!" "It was Pierrette that took it; it couldn't have been this artist girl," said Deering, excitedly whipping out his penknife and slitting one of the packages. A sheaf of blank wrapping-paper fluttered to the floor. His face whitened and he gave a cry of dismay. "Robbed! Tricked!" he groaned, staring at Hood. Hood picked up the paper and scrutinized the seal. "S. J. Deering, personal," he read in the wax. "You don't suppose that girl has taken the trouble to forge your father's private seal, do you?" Deering feverishly tore open the other packages.