"And the danger," Morris broke in. "She speaks of danger. Oh, God! And she isn't here and I don't know where she's gone!" He clenched his hands upon the chair arms and looked at Peter in agonized entreaty. "We'll take steps to find her," Peter said, firmly, encouragingly. "And we'll start this instant. Come! We'll get the janitor up here and see what he knows, since we're on the spot. He must know something, at least, about their ordinary habits, whether a maid came in by the day, who some of their friends are, possibly. We might get a clue, a hint, from anywhere or anybody. You never can tell. We've got to trust a good deal to luck. But you know 'the luck of the Irish'!" This with a cheerful grin as he went toward the door. "I'll get the Dago first," he said, and vanished. CHAPTER VII A SPLASH OF BLOOD The door closed after Peter with a snap of the spring lock, and Donald Morris waited, striding nervously about. At every turn in the length of the room he paused beside the frail scarf which still lay upon the table. It drew him with an irresistible, horrible fascination. Whose blood was that upon it? What fearful scene had taken place in this quiet room? The overturned table suggested that there might have been a struggle. But what sort of a struggle, and between whom? Was there some secret animosity between these two sisters, living so closely together and in such seclusion? That had been his impression for a long time. Was it correct? And if so, what then? Had the feeling between them been serious enough to cause---- His troubled reflections were interrupted by a quick, quiet knock on the outer door. He went swiftly into the shadowy hall, and hearing the detective's voice just outside, he threw open the door, disclosing Clancy and the janitor. The latter seemed very much abashed by the summons. He snatched off his old hat, and with his two hands clasped behind his back he bowed several times in a quick, foreign way, and smiled deprecatingly. He was dressed in an old loose pair of dark trousers and a blue-and-white striped, long-sleeved blouse, open at the throat. Altogether he appeared what he was--a kindly, childlike, dirty little Italian, such as one may see by the hundred in the section south of Washington Square. "Come on in, Angelo," said Clancy, pleasantly. "Don't be afraid. Mr. Morris and I just want to ask you a few questions. Name's Angelo Russo," he added, turning to Morris. "Says he's been janitor here for about four years." Then, turning back, he took the seemingly reluctant Italian by the arm. "Come in here, Angelo," he repeated. "Nothing for you to be afraid of. I guess Sullivan must have treated you kind of rough, didn't he? But he didn't mean anything. Professional etiquette, that's all. Now sit down there and make yourself comfortable, and tell us what you know about the tenants here."