With deep thankfulness they let in the policeman. A sergeant appeared. He was very sympathetic and reassuring. "Best not to proceed too quickly," he said in a fat, slow way. "I have a man still outside watching. So if ’e’s ’ere, Miss, we’ll catch ’im either way. A grand thing the telephone." He unlocked the door, and thoroughly investigated the kitchen. "No signs," said he, "no signs." The Leightons recovered some of their lost dignity and crowded in. Only Jean however had the satisfaction of hair in order and curlers discarded. How brave of Jean to remember at that dreadful moment of burglars in the house! The sergeant had gas lighted and looked extremely puzzled. "’E ’s been ’ere right enough," said he. "Window open right enough. Was it fastened?" He turned about, but the chief evidence had departed. With the advent of the policeman, cook and retinue had suddenly remembered their costumes. Like rabbits they had scuttled, first into the larder for cover, then into their own rooms, where they donned costumes more suitable for such impressive visitors. Mrs. Leighton’s eye twinkled when she found cook appear in hastily found dress. "Did you leave the window unfastened, cook?" she asked. Cook was sure. "It was a thing as ’ow I never forgot, ma’am, but this one night----" Well, there seemed to be some uncertainty. Elma’s eyes during this were straying continually to a piece of notepaper lying on a table. First she thought, "It is some letter belonging to the maids." Then an impelling idea that the white paper had some other meaning forced her to pick it up. Every other person was engaged in watching the search of the sergeant and listening to his words. "Some one has been right in this ’ere kitchen. It’s the doors and windows unlatched that do it. Many a time since I’ve been here as sergeant, I’ve said to myself, ’We’ll ’ave trouble yet over these unlatched windows.’" "We have been so safe," complained Mrs. Leighton. "The poor people here too--so respectable and hard-working!" "Drink, ma’am, drink," said the sergeant dismally, "you never know what it will do to a man." He turned his lantern in his fat fingers. "Oh," said Aunt Katharine with a sudden gasp, "I could stand a plain thief, hungry, may be, but master of himself. But a drunk man--it’s dreadful." She shivered and looked into corners as though one of the thieves might be asleep there. The sergeant and his companion made a thorough search of the house. None of them noticed Elma who sat as though cast in an eternal shiver and who surreptitiously read the scrap of notepaper. "The Trail." That was all that was written in words but nimbly drawn on a turned back corner was a snaky, sinuous serpent. It had the eyes and the accusing glare of the expression of Elsie.