She was trembling. One slim hand plucked nervously at her dress. Her breath came and went quickly. “I saw the curtain move. I thought it was the wind at first. But then I saw the outline of your fingers. And I imagined it was he ... come back ...” “Miss Trevert,” said the boy abashed, “I must have frightened you terribly. I had no idea it was you!” “But why are you hiding here? How did you get in? What do you want in this house?” She spoke quickly, nervously. Some papers she held in her hand shook with her emotion. Bruce Wright stepped to the desk and turned the bulb of the reading-lamp down into its normal position. “I must apologize most sincerely for the fright I gave you,” he said. “But, believe me, Miss Trevert, I had no idea that anybody could gain access to this room. I climbed in through the window. Bude told me that the police had taken away the key ...” The girl made an impatient gesture. “But why have you come here?” she said. “What do you want?” The boy measured her with a narrow glance. He was young, but he was shrewd. He saw her frank eyes, her candid, open mien, and he took a rapid decision. “I think I have come,” he answered slowly, “for the same purpose as yourself!” And he looked at the papers in her hand. “I used to be Mr. Parrish’s secretary, you know,” he said. The girl sighed—a little fluttering sigh—and looked earnestly at him. “I remember,” she said. “Hartley liked you. He was sorry that he sent you away. He often spoke of you to me. But why have you come back? What do you mean by saying you have come for the same purpose as myself?” Bruce Wright looked at the array of letter-trays. The marble paper-weight had been displaced. The tray in which it had lain was empty. He looked at the sheaf of papers in the girl’s hand. “I wanted to see,” he replied, “whether there was anything here ... on his desk ... which would explain the mystery of his death ...” The girl spread out the papers in her hand on the big blotter. She laid the papers out in a row and leant forward, her white arms resting on the desk. From the other side of the desk the boy leant eagerly forward and scanned the line of papers. At the first glimpse his face fell. The girl, eyeing him closely, marked the change which came over his features. There were seven papers of various kinds, both printed and written, and they were all on white paper. The boy shook his head and swept the papers together into a heap. “It’s not there?” queried the girl eagerly. “No!” said Bruce absent-mindedly, glancing round the desk. “What isn’t?” flashed back the girl. Bruce Wright felt his face redden with vexation. What sort of a confidential emissary was he to fall into a simple trap like this? The girl smiled rather wanly.