Evidently some one had been in this room recently. From point to point I walked, looking for further traces, but there were none that I could see. What woman could have been in here so lately? And did the old man asleep downstairs know of her entry? He must have, for she could not have entered the house, had he not admitted her. I felt I was becoming quite a clever detective, with an exceptional gift for deduction from the obvious. Another gleam of intelligence led me to conclude that this woman's presence in the house probably accounted for Taylor's determination not to let me go over the house. I thought I heard a sound. I held my breath and stood still, listening intently, but the only sound that came to me was the distant shrill whistle of some one summoning a taxi. Outside in the passage, all was still as death. I walked to the end of the passage, peeped into other bedrooms, then returned to the room with the table bearing the imprint of the hand. The windows overlooked Belgrave Street--double windows, which made the sound of the traffic down below inaudible. Carelessly I watched for some moments the vehicles and passers-by, unconsciously striving to puzzle out, meanwhile, the problem of the hand. Suddenly, two figures approaching along the pavement from the direction of Wilton Street, arrested my attention. They seemed familiar to me. As they came nearer, a strange feeling of excitement possessed me, for I recognised the burly form of Davies, or "Smithson," and as he had called himself, and, walking beside him, Sir Charles Thorold. The two appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. They disappeared where the street turned, and as I came away from the window I noticed, for the first time, that the room had another door, a door leading presumably into a dressing-room. I went over to it. It was locked. I tried a key on the bunch, but at once discovered that a key was in the door. The door was locked on the inside! I knocked. There was no answer. And just then I distinctly heard a sound inside the room. "Who's there?" I called out. "Let me in!" A sound, resembling a sob, reached me faintly. I heard light footfalls. The key turned slowly, and the lock clicked. I turned the handle, and went in. CHAPTER EIGHT. MORE MYSTERY. I halted on the threshold, wondering and aghast. Vera, in her hat and jacket, stood facing me a few yards away. She was extremely pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and I saw at once she had been weeping. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then, pulling myself together-- "Why, darling, what are you doing here?" I asked. She did not answer. Her big, blue, unfathomable eyes were set on mine. There was in them an expression I had not seen there before--an odd, unnatural look, which made me feel uncomfortable. "What are you doing here?" I repeated. "Why did you call upon me with Davies?"