Softly, soundlessly, he ascended the dim stairs, one flight, two flights, three. Again he inserted his duplicate key in the lock, as he had two nights before--only two nights, but what a difference there was in the feeling with which he listened to the soft click of the lock as the bolt threw back. Then it had been a forlorn hope. Now---- He closed the door softly, and went without hesitation into the living room, in the front, setting down his handbag just inside the door. Again he pulled down the shades at the three big windows, but this time there was no uncertainty in the movements which followed. Flashlight in hand, he went quickly over to the desk and turned on the small electric lamp. Then, slipping the flash into his pocket, he immediately crossed the room and took down with care the pile of magazines which were in the corner of the top book-shelf. He carried them over to the desk, and in the light of the candle lamp went through them, one by one. The pages passed swiftly through his fingers with a soft, fluttering noise which sounded loud in the stillness, but Peter did not hear it, so intent was he upon his odd quest. He looked like a student, as he sat there at midnight, with bent head, poring over the pile of magazines, but he read nothing. His swift fingers turned the pages, one by one, without pause, until he came to a place where an article had been cut away. Then he stopped, drew out a little leather book from his pocket, and made an entry--the name and date of the magazine and the number of the page. He did this with each magazine in turn, working methodically down through the pile until all were finished. "I may be a damfool," he said to himself, with a tired sigh as he rose from his cramped position, and lifting the mass of magazines, replaced them on the shelf. "If I am, I am. That's all. But it's a bet, a good bet, Pete. Even that wise old Mrs. Rutherford thought so--and we're not passing any of 'em up.... Now, let's see. There's one thing more--may not be any use, but it's better to get the whole dope now I'm on the spot. It was the _Planet_. I remember that, and the date was--no, I'm not exactly sure--the twenty-fourth, or the twenty-fifth--and I've no idea what page. Better make sure----" Peter never knew exactly why he turned out the light in the living room then. Some habitual instinct of caution, perhaps. At any rate, he did turn it out, and guided his steps by his flashlight only as he made his way down the long, narrow hall to the storeroom. Here he proceeded again, swiftly, unhesitatingly. He lit the gas, and dropped to his knees beside the big trunk. There was a faint jingle as he selected a key from the big bunch which he took from his pocket and inserted it in the lock, a click as the bolt was released. There was not a sound when he carefully raised the lid and folded back the garments on top, until he came to a bundle wrapped in newspaper.