Then, supplementing the light from above with the clear gleam of his torch, he searched the kitchen with microscopic thoroughness, but found nothing which could be supposed, in any remote way, to have a bearing on his problem. The two significant details, the fallen glass upon the outside of the sill and the sliver of ice in the sink, which he had noted on that perplexing Monday, having disappeared, the kitchen had no other revelations to offer. He proceeded to the dining room, with a like result. Except for the disarrangement of the side-board already noted, the room was evidently just as it ordinarily appeared when tenanted. Again he noticed that there was but one chair drawn up to the small round mahogany dining table. The rest were standing tidily against the walls, and he wondered if only one person had partaken of the last meal which was eaten in that room. Passing into the hall, he sent the brilliant eye of his flash back and forth across the dark waxed floor. It was thinly covered now with a light, feathery dust. It would blow into the little gray rolls that the hospital nurses call "kittens" if the air was let in. "Gad, I wish I could open the windows," thought Peter. "The air's as dead as----" He paused before the open door of the small storeroom, still looking at the floor. There was one spot here where the dust had collected thickly. A big round clot of it lay there and several smaller spots. Peter, with a slight faint creeping of the flesh, stepped carefully across this part of the floor and entered the storeroom. The only window here gave upon a narrow light-shaft across which was the window of the bath adjoining. There were only thin muslin curtains at these windows, but at this midnight hour probably no one would notice the light at the top of the shaft. "Anyhow, I'll have to risk it," said Peter, half aloud, "I've got to make sure about this room." There was only gas here, as in all the rear of the apartment, but the flow was good and the light fairly strong. Again Peter noted the slight abrasions of the wall where he concluded the other trunk had stood, the trunk which Bill, the taxi driver, had found so heavy, the trunk which Anne Blake had taken away with her to a destination which still remained veiled in mystery. The size of the trunk was--Peter measured from one little sharp indentation in the wall to another--three feet four or five inches--and from the floor, approximately twenty-four inches. "Big enough," Peter muttered to himself. "Big enough for--almost anything." He folded up his pocket rule and turned to the large brass-bound trunk which had been left standing against the wall. "Makes me feel a bit like a burglar, but it's all in the day's work," thought Peter, as he knelt beside it and inspected the lock. "I guess I've got you," his thought ran on, "you're easy," and he took a large bunch of small keys from his pocket, and after a few minutes' work, found one that fitted.