Harry Nichols offered his arm to Loris. They passed from the view of the two detectives with the locked, gliding stride of two dancers who moved to slow time. Drew heard the portières which led to the writing-room rustle downward and settle into place. He passed his hand over his forehead and breathed deeply. "We'll get busy," he whispered tersely. "We'll search these rooms again. Let's start with a definite foundation!" Delaney grunted at the uselessness of this as he reached and took the detective's overcoat which was peeled off and extended to him. "Hang it on a chair," said Drew sharply. "Over there with my hat. Now," he snapped, "what about the windows of this room, the little reception hall and the bedroom over there? That's a bedroom, isn't it?" "Sure, Chief! I frisked it good. The Central Office men were up here early in the morning. They went through everything. Fosdick, they say, was like a bull. He said the thing couldn't be done." "It _was_ done!" "Did you get any clue, Chief, as to how it was done?" "It's as much a mystery as ever. But we're trimming the tree called Truth with a broad ax. I'm going around this case to get the man or men who did it. Then we'll find out how it was done!" "Oh!" Delaney's expression was thought-laden. "Just thought of it, Chief. I got them plaster-of-paris casts. I got 'em down stairs. It was some job, believe me. I took everything about that junction-box, after I'd thawed the snow with hot blankets which a good-looking cook brought to me." "Go down and get them!" Delaney hurried out through the tapestries of the room. Drew started his search of the apartment by a study of the windows and the catches. He opened one and glanced outside. Snow had drifted to the depth of three inches on the sill. This snow was unmarked. He examined all of the sills extending from the three rooms. He closed and locked the windows. He backed off into the center of the reception room and studied the situation from every angle. The furniture was fragile and in sets of such splendid periods his eyes closed over them. The rugs and tapestries--curtains and portières--sheathings of yellow hand-painted silk from Nippon--rare ceramics and cloisonnés--a huge peach-blow vase of the Ming dynasty and a hundred little jade and jasper knick-knacks were the outward evidence of wealth. He opened the plate-glass cases and peered inside. He crawled under a couch and backed out dusting his hands. He tapped with slow knuckles a long cheval-glass by the side of which was a tiny gold-bracket and a silver-plated telephone. He went the rounds of the walls, lifting pictures, portraits and little military oils by French painters of the Franco-Prussian period. He found nothing to excite his suspicion!