"I don't know how it escaped me before, except that the hall was so dark," muttered Peter, angrily, to himself, as he closed the door upon the Italian's hurried departure. Hastily he took a small but powerful electric hand-light from his pocket and flashed it slowly all about. The door showed no further traces, inside or out, but on the floor, which was stained dark brown and heavily waxed, there were two or three dull, round spots. Peter tested them with moistened forefinger, and held up his hand to Morris. The end of the finger was stained red. Swiftly he proceeded down the hall, flashing his torch back and forth close to the floor. As he came opposite the door of the room which had been used as a storeroom or closet, Morris who, white to the lips, had followed closely, heard him give a little grunt of satisfaction and saw him drop to his knees. "Plenty of it here," said Clancy, pointing, and he flashed the light so as to bring out a large, dull blot upon the softly shining wax of the floor. "And here! and here!" he added, indicating smaller spots just beyond on the floor and one, showing dark red, on the white baseboard. A moment later he rose. Rapidly and thoroughly he inspected the entire apartment, flashing his hand-torch into all the dark corners. Morris, silent and apprehensive, followed him, closely watching every movement. They found nothing more, and returning to the living room, Peter stood for several moments before the window, lost in thought. At last he turned to Donald Morris and said: "I won't try to put anything over on you, Mr. Morris. The detective who's able to dope out everything in a complicated case by looking at a little bunch of ashes doesn't exist. You can take it from me," with a wry smile, "there ain't no such animal.... Frankly, I'm at a loss. How serious this thing is, it's impossible for me to say. But it looks like a pretty ugly combination of circumstances, I'll go that far.... If you want to go on with the proposition--and I take it for granted that you do----" "I do, I must!" There was no uncertainty in Donald's tone. "Well, then, our best bet is to get busy tracing Miss Blake and her sister. We're only wasting time. Apparently there's nobody here who knows anything about where they might have gone, who their friends are, or----" Both men started violently. In the stillness of the room a telephone bell rang out, loudly, insistently. Peter faced swiftly about to the instrument which stood on a small stand to the left of the door into the hall. With a leap he reached it, caught the receiver off the hook, and held it to his ear. "9282 Sturdevant?" a voice intoned over the wire. Peter glanced at the little plate over the mouth-piece and replied at once: "9282 Sturdevant. Who's calling?" "Just a moment," came the honeyed reply. "Here's your party."