"Anne Blake's things, without a doubt," he thought, "and too worn out to bother with.... And her winter stuff packed away with her sister's.... I wonder if Sherlock Holmes would make anything out of that. Does it mean that she plans to come back in the fall? Or are they all things she has no further use for? And, if so, why pack 'em away so carefully?... And just a few days before--she--quit. Was the whole business 'sudden at the last,' as they say of people who are a long time dying?" He shook his red head in perplexity. "Well, no use trying to think it out now, Peter. Let's get all the dope and then patch it together the best we can." So saying, he slipped softly down the hall, throwing his brilliant light over every inch of the floor and walls. Almost without sound he drifted from the hall into the bedroom and stood still, looking about him. There was electricity here, and he boldly switched on the lights in the ceiling. The resulting illumination was so bright that it made him blink. Then he proceeded with his investigation. Nothing in the waste basket, nothing, not even ashes, in the small, old-fashioned grate; nothing left in the few pockets he discovered with exceeding difficulty, in the various rich articles of women's apparel which hung in the two closets. Nothing of any interest in the rifled drawers of the big highboy, nor in the empty drawers of the dressing table. A little drift of pink toilet powder still clung in the corner of one of them and there was a tiny smear of red on the inner side of the same drawer. Peter touched it and found that it was a trifle greasy and made his finger-tip rosy-red. "Rouge. Aha, my lady," he chuckled, with a little grimace, "beauty isn't always even skin deep." And for the hundredth time he wondered if Mary Blake was all that Morris thought her. "Not that a little paint and powder is anything against a girl these days, when every flapper, from fifteen to fifty, makes up for the street, and some of 'em pile it on so thick you'd think they must have put it on with a trowel--in the dark. Well," he looked about him, "there's no excuse for her if she didn't do it right." He reached out and switched on the lights on both sides of the mirror, at the back of the dressing table. His pleasant, homely freckled face appeared in the glass, dazzlingly illuminated. "Humph! Mary took no chances of not looking her best, I'll say that for her," he thought. "But I wish to God she'd left me some real light on the problem she's stacked me up against, instead of all this spotlight stuff.... Well--I guess there's nothing here. Now for the living room."