“Then, owing to the girl’s struggles, the string of beads round her neck broke, and scattered over the floor.” “Only part of them.” “Yes; the others stayed with her, or were picked up by the kidnappers.” “More than one?” “I think two. For, when Mr Varian arrived upon the scene, one of them turned on him,—and killed him,—while there must have been another to hold Betty. It is possible there was only one, but I doubt it.” “And you think the concealed entrance is through the kitchen?” “That, or the cellar. Anyway, there is one, and it must be found! It was used the night Martha was killed,—it was used the night North disappeared,—why, man, it _must_ be there,—and I _must_ find it!” “True enough, and I hope you will.” “Here’s something, Penny,” Zizi said, appearing suddenly at his elbow. “I’ve found a stain on my frock that’s exactly like the one we noticed on poor Martha’s hand.” “What?” “Yes, a green stain,—a long swish, as of green paint,—but it isn’t paint.” Zizi held up a little linen frock that she sometimes wore mornings. On the side, down near the hem, was a green smear, and it was similar in appearance to the strange mark on the hand of the dead girl. “Where’d it come from?” asked Wise, shortly. “I don’t know, but it’s the dress I wore when I was exploring the cellar, and it got pretty dirty.” “Been washed?” “No, I shook off and brushed off most of the dirt, but this stain stuck, and wouldn’t brush off. That’s how I noticed it.” “Coincidence, I’m afraid. Or maybe Martha went down cellar that night for something.” “But what in the cellar would make a mark like that?” “Dunno, Ziz. There’s no green paint down there.” “It isn’t paint, Penny,” Zizi persisted. “It doesn’t smell like paint.” “What does it smell like?” “There’s no odor to it, that I can notice. But it’s a clue.” “So’s the yellow pillow,—so are the scattered beads,—so was the footprint of cellar dust on the library floor,—but they’re all blind clues,—they lead nowhere.” “Penny Wise! what ails you? I never knew you so ready to lie down on a job!” “No, Zizi, not that. It’s only that I can see how futile and useless all these clues are. We’ve got to get some bigger evidence. In fact, we can do nothing till we find the way the criminal got in and out of this house. Don’t tease me, Zizi, I never was so put about!” “You must be, when you revert to your old-fashioned phrases!” the girl laughed at him, but there was deepest sympathy in her dark eyes, and an affectionate, brooding glance told of her anxiety for him. Yet the carpenters found nothing. They proved beyond all possible doubt that there was no secret passage between the interior of Headland House and the outer world,—that there could be none, for every inch of space was investigated and accounted for. “There’s no way to get into that house except through its two doors or its windows,” the master carpenter declared, and the men who were watching knew he spoke the truth.