"Do you know why you were chloroformed last night, and who did it?" "I think I know who did it, but I don't understand. I have been trying all day to think it out. I'm afraid to go to sleep to-night." "You need not be," I assured her. "If necessary, we will have the city police in a ring around the house. If you know and don't tell, Margery, you are running a risk, and more than that, you are protecting a person who ought to be in jail." "I'm not sure," she persisted. "Don't ask me about it, please." "What does Mrs. Butler say?" "Just what she said this morning. And she says valuable papers were taken from under her pillow. She was very ill--hysterical, all afternoon." The gloom and smouldering fire of the _Sonata Apassionata_ came to us from across the hall. I leaned over and took Margery's small hand between my two big ones. "Why don't you tell me?" I urged. "Or--you needn't tell me, I know what you think. But there isn't any motive that I can see, and why would she chloroform you?" "I don't know," Margery shuddered. "Sometimes--I wonder--do you think she is altogether sane?" The music ended with the crash of a minor chord. Fred and Edith came down the stairs, and the next moment we were all together, and the chance for a quiet conversation was gone. At the door Fred turned and came back. "Watch the house," he said. "And by the way, I guess"--he lowered his voice--"the lady's story was probably straight. I looked around again this afternoon, and there are fresh scratches on the porch roof under her window. It looks queer, doesn't it?" It was a relief to know that, after all, Mrs. Butler was an enemy and a dangerous person to nobody but herself. She retired to her room almost as soon as Fred and Edith had gone. I was wondering whether or not to tell Margery about the experiment that afternoon; debating how to ask her what letters she had got from the postmaster at Bellwood addressed to Miss Jane, and what she knew of Bella. At the same time--bear with me, oh masculine reader, the gentle reader will, for she cares a great deal more for the love story than for all the crime and mystery put together--bear with me, I say, if I hold back the account of the terrible events that came that night, to tell how beautiful Margery looked as the lamplight fell on her brown hair and pure profile, and how the impulse came over me to kiss her as she sat there; and how I didn't, after all--poor gentle reader!--and only stooped over and kissed the pink palm of her hand. She didn't mind it; speaking as nearly as possible from an impersonal standpoint, I doubt if she was even surprised. You see, the ring was gone and--it had only been an engagement ring anyhow, and everybody knows how binding they are! And then an angel with a burning sword came and scourged me out of my Eden. And the angel was Burton, and the sword was a dripping umbrella.