He tried the door absent-mindedly, and found it locked. A long moment after he had pressed a second time upon the bell, the door was opened by Rita Kildair herself, who drew back in evident astonishment. "You?" she said, frowning. "I was going to telephone," he said, a little embarrassed; "but they told me downstairs to come up." "Quite right." "Look here, Rita," he said, with a sudden feeling of intuition. "I know you probably think I’m a prime representative of the pinhead family, but I’m awfully broken up by what happened. Can’t I help out some way?" [Illustration: "’Look here, Rita. Can’t I help you out some way?’"] "Is that why you’ve come?" she said slowly. "Of course," he said, meeting her scrutiny with a puzzled glance. She considered a moment and then said abruptly: "Go in and sit down. I’m busy at the telephone. I’ll be back in a moment." The studio was still blazing with the electric chandeliers, the dining-table still crowded with the untouched dinner, with that sense of desolation and fatigue which the aftermath of a banquet presents. Lighted up as it was, the studio had none of the mystery that charmed—rather, something of the cruel garishness of the white sun. He moved about aimlessly, arms crossed, his imagination repeopling the room with the strongly accentuated personalities who had gathered there an hour before, saying to himself over and over: "Now, why the deuce did Garraboy come back?" He approached the table and abstractedly took an almond and began munching it. Then, perceiving the chafing-dish, reached over, with a smile, and lifted the cover. But, at the moment his hand was outstretched, his eyes, obeying some mysterious instinct, rose to a long Venetian mirror opposite. In the clear reflection that showed the balcony of the second floor, he distinctly beheld the head of a woman protruding a little beyond the curtain. "What the deuce!" he said, covering the chafing-dish with a bang. "It can’t be Rita—who then?" All at once he comprehended. If the ring had not been found in the search, it was because it had been concealed in the room, and the woman in the balcony was a detective set to watch the trap—if the real thief had the daring to return. At this moment Rita Kildair entered from the bedroom. "Good heavens, Rita!" he said directly. "You don’t mean to say you suspect me?" "What do you mean?" she said, stopping short, her glance instinctively seeking the balcony. "I mean you’ve stuck a detective up there to see what I do the moment I come into the studio. Good heavens! what do you think I came for?" "My dear Teddy," she said, frowning at the stupidity of her spy, "is there any one who can’t be suspected? Do you blame me?" "No, I suppose not," he blurted out. "Only, it gives a fellow a deuced creepy feeling to have a couple of eyes looking through him from behind the curtain. I say, why don’t you search the place? The ring must be here!"