He brought with him a strange, almost weird little girl creature, who ran up the steps and into the house before him. Granniss had opened the door to them, and after greeting Wise, he turned to the girl. “My assistant,” Wise said, carelessly. “Name, Zizi. Give her over to the housekeeper, she’ll take care of herself. Where’s the library—or living room?” Quite apparently tired from the steep walk up the cliff, Wise sank into a chair that Rodney placed for him. They stayed in the hall, which was large and square, and was often used as a sitting room. Zizi, however, dropping her bag in the hall, darted toward the dining room and thence to the kitchen. “Oh,” she cried, to Hannah, “are you the cook? Do give me some tea and toast or something,—I’m famished! My heavens! Who’s that?” Zizi bent over the dead girl, whose body still lay on the kitchen floor. Martha was clad only in a kimono, over her nightdress, and wore bedroom slippers but no stockings. “Hopped out of bed and ran down suddenly, didn’t she?” commented the strange girl. “Didn’t even stop to pin up her hair. Must have heard somebody that she was pretty sure was burglaring, or she wouldn’t have run down again on the chance of its being Mrs Varian the second time.” “How do you know all about it?” asked Hannah, aghast, at the remarkable person that had invaded her kitchen. “But you’re right! Martha was too cute to be caught in a mistake twice,—she must have been sure it was not Mrs Varian again!” “Your chauffeur, who met us at the train, told us about this poor girl.” Zizi’s black eyes snapped as she delicately touched the awful bruises on Martha’s throat. “Small doubt what did for her! Brute!” Kneeling down, she ran her tiny fingers lightly over the body, and finally scrutinized the hands. “Look, Hannah,” she said, quietly, and held open the left hand. It showed a dark green streak, of some sort, that spread entirely across the palm. “Paint?” asked Hannah, not specially interested. “Our porch chairs have been painted lately,—but I don’t see how she got out on the porch. Though o’ course, she could ’a’ done so. That Martha.” Just then Potter and Bill Dunn returned, and said they were ready to take the body of the girl down to the village, where her parents lived. “And a good job to get it out of this house,” said Dunn. “I tell you, Potter, poor Martha’s death has nothin’ to do with those other horrors up here; and Mrs Varian has all she can stagger under without the extra sorrow and trouble of a servant girl.” “Wait!” commanded Zizi, for her ringing tone was nothing less than commanding, “wait, till Mr Wise sees this girl.” She ran for the detective, who came at once. The sheriff gazed with eager curiosity at the great city detective, and sniffed to see that he was a mere human being after all. He saw only a good-looking, well set up man, with chestnut hair, brushed back from a broad forehead, and sharp blue eyes that were kindly of expression but keen of observation.