He knelt to investigate and found that the ashes appeared to be those of burnt paper only. He stirred them carefully, but could not find a vestige of charred wood nor a single bit of paper which had escaped the action of the fire. Morris followed him silently about the room, asking no questions. He had the air of one dazed by a crushing blow. Satisfied, for the moment, by a more or less casual inspection, Clancy returned to what was to him the most significant object in the room. "This scarf," said he, looking at it closely. "I think you told me you found it outside in the hall?" "Partly outside and partly in," Morris made answer at once. "It was caught fast by the door, but some of the--of the blood on it was outside." "H--m--m, yes," said Clancy, slowly. "And it belongs to someone who lives here, you think?" "It was Miss Mary Blake's," answered Morris, decidedly. "You're sure?" "Perfectly." "How do you know?" "I recognized it at once," answered Morris with conviction. "She wore it when--when I brought her home after the closing of the play." "Saturday--that was Saturday night, and this is Monday," Peter Clancy ruminated. "And that was the last you saw of her?" "The last I saw of her, yes. I spoke to her on the wire Sunday morning, rather early, about ten o'clock. And I--I received a letter from her this morning. That was why I came. I was alarmed, and----" "You were alarmed, then, before you came here. It was not only finding the scarf----" "No. Her letter was so--so strange and unaccountable." Morris hesitated and, to help him out, Peter said: "But you did expect to find Miss Blake here when you came this morning?" "I," Morris spoke slowly--"I can't say that I expected to find her. I only thought there might be a chance. But I certainly did expect to find her sister, Anne." "Oh, there's a sister," said Clancy. "Well, perhaps she'll turn up. Maybe she's just gone away for the week-end, or you know it's quite on the cards that she may have gone out this morning, even, and not come back yet. She might have been looking for something in that desk in a hurry and left it upset. And as to the scarf, and the blood stain on it (I admit, you see, that it probably is blood) it might well be accounted for by some simple accident----" Morris shook his head, the troubled frown remaining fixed upon his forehead. "No, no," he exclaimed. "It's impossible to dispose of the conditions here so easily. I'm sure you'll agree with me when you see the rest of the apartment. Something has happened here--something sinister. I'm sure of it. I'm at a loss to understand it all," he pressed his hand against his forehead as if the throbbing of his brain made his head ache, "but perhaps you can make a guess. Come and see." CHAPTER IV A VIEWLESS ROOM Donald Morris turned quickly and opened a door immediately on the right of the one which led into the hall.