He heard the others running up the stairs, so as he raised Kate from the floor he said to Mrs. Fair; “Sit on the chest, Janet—never mind why—and do not rise from it until I get them all out of here. It is only Miss Mettleby, the governess—she has fainted,” he added as Mrs. March and Allyne entered followed by Travers. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Fair, how pale you look—what has really happened?” asked Mrs. March anxiously. “Miss Mettleby has had a bad turn—that’s all. Pray, all of you go,” replied Fair, for Mrs. Fair, with a white face and vacant look, sat as if unconscious of what passed. “Allyne, take Mrs. March down, won’t you?” asked Travers, to relieve the situation, and then, after Allyne and Mrs. March were gone: “Is there nothing that I can do, Fair? My God, man, what does it all mean?” “Thanks, old chap,” answered Fair as he laid Miss Mettleby upon the leather lounge; “nothing. Go down now, or Lady Poynter will fear there is something serious the matter. Janet, my love, let Travers see you down.” Mrs. Fair suffered Travers to lead her away, walking in a trance. “Kate—Kate,” said Fair, bending over the governess and chafing her hands which now began to twitch convulsively. “Has he gone?” asked Kate, opening her eyes and staring nervously around the room. “There is nobody here, Miss Mettleby,” quietly answered Fair, helping her to her feet. “Are you better?” “I must have fainted—how stupid of me,” replied Miss Mettleby, getting herself together and shuddering as the reality came back upon her. “It is nothing, Mr. Fair. Now please go back to your dinner—oh, how foolish and annoying of me to disturb you all in this way! I will get my hat and take the air for a few minutes. Come.” They walked slowly out of the library, and in the passage Kate insisted on his returning to the dining-room while she ran up to her own room. Fair went down accordingly, tortured with the fear that she had opened the chest. Miss Mettleby, hastily preparing for the street, slipped out of the house and fled along to the corner, where she took a cab and was driven off at a mad pace. CHAPTER VI About nine o’clock that evening Mr. Inspector Sharpe sat in his little office, running his eye over the records of a day’s departures from the steep and thorny path on the part of the very mixed and sorely tried people of London. At that hour he was on duty also on emergency cases that might be reported at the ever-expectant Yard. So he glanced at his reports casually, as one does who looks to be interrupted at any moment. The bells in the steeples were chiming nine when a constable entered, conducting a very agitated young woman who showed not only the usual nervousness of the layman in police offices, but also a great deal of not very clearly defined personal anxiety. “Well? Well?” asked the Inspector, without looking up from his reports. “I beg your pardon—but is this—?” asked a timid voice in return.