“She’s coming down,” Mrs. Adams announced, as she returned to Trask and they waited. But when the minutes grew to a quarter of an hour, and then nearly to a half, Mrs. Adams again climbed the stairs to hasten proceedings. This time she found the room empty. The absence, too, of brushes and combs, the disappearance of a small suitcase, and the fact that her hat and coat were gone all pointed unmistakably to the assumption that the girl had fled. “Well!” Mrs. Adams reported, “she’s lit out, bag and baggage.” “Gone!” exclaimed Trask in dismay. “Well, she isn’t in her room. Her trunk is locked and strapped and her suitcase is missing. Her hat and coat’s gone, too, so you can make your own guess.” But Maurice Trask didn’t stay there to make his guess. He went back home as fast as he could and told Fleming Stone the news. “Run away, has she?” said Stone. “I rather looked for that.” “You did! And took no steps to prevent it! You’re a nice detective, you are. Well, if you’re so smart, where’d she go?” “Where’s Lockwood?” was Stone’s laconic response. “Lockwood!” exclaimed Trask. “Wherever he is, he hasn’t run off with Anita Austin! If he has—by Jove, I’ll break every bone in his body!” “You’ll have to catch him first,” smiled the detective. “I’ll catch him! I’ll set you to do it. And, looky here, if she’s gone off with that man, you can go ahead and catch her, catch them both, and then go ahead and prove her guilty.” “Is she?” “Is she? You bet she is! And I know it.” “How do you know?” “I’ll tell you. I know her eyebrows!” “So do I know her eyebrows. But they don’t tell me she’s a murderer.” “Well, they tell me that! It’s this way. Her eyebrows, are not only heavy and dark, but they almost meet over the bridge of her nose.” “Darling nose!” put in Fibsy, who was interested in Anita but not in Trask’s deductions. “Does your knowledge of physiognomy tell you that those meeting eyebrows are a sign of a criminal?” asked Stone. “Nothing of that sort. But they are the Truesdell brows.” “The Truesdell brows?” Stone raised his own. “Sounds like a proprietary article. Not artificial, are they?” “Now, see here, Mr. Stone, I’m in no mood to be guyed. Those eyebrows are frequently seen in the Truesdell family. My grandfather’s brother married a Truesdell.” “Your grandfather’s brother married a Truesdell. And your own grandfather didn’t?” “No; I haven’t those brows.” “Well, you’re not entitled to them, having no Truesdell blood in your veins.” “But that girl has.” “Indeed! Interesting, is it not?” “Aw, come off that line o’ talk, F. S.,” said Fibsy, knitting his brows, which were not Truesdellian. “I’m seein’ a chink o’ light. The brother of your grandfather, now, Mr. Trask, he was named—?” “Waring, of course. Henry Waring. My grandfather was James Waring.” “And this Henry Waring—he was the father of Doctor John Waring?” As Fibsy said this, Stone sat upright, and gazed hard at Trask.