"She has never seen a scrap of it. Miss Farlow never showed her the registered letters. The original note left on the doorstep with Florence has been lost. Trust me to make all these inquiries." "To-morrow night, then, immediately after dinner, a taxicab will await her just around the corner. Grange is the best man I can think of. He's an artist when it comes to playing the old-man parts." "Not too old, remember. Hargreave isn't over forty-five." "Another good point. I'm going to stretch out here on the divan and snooze for a while. Had a devil of a time last night." "When shall I wake you?" "At six. We'll have an early dinner sent in. I want to keep out of everybody's way. By-by!" In less than three minutes he was sound asleep. The woman gazed down at him in wonder and envy. If only she could drop to sleep like that. Very softly she pressed her lips to his hair. At eleven o'clock the following night the hall light in the Hargreave house was turned off and the whole interior became dark. A shadow crept through the lilac bushes without any more sound than a cat would have made. Florence's window was open as the arch-conspirator had expected it would be. With a small string and stone as a sling he sent the letter whirling skilfully through the air. It sailed into the girl's room. The man below heard no sound of the stone hitting anything and concluded that it had struck the bed. He waited patiently. Presently a wavering light could be distinguished over the sill of the window. The girl was awake and had lit the candle. This knowledge was sufficient for his need. The tragic letter would do the rest, that is, if the girl came from the same pattern as her father and mother--strong-willed and adventurous. He tiptoed back to the lilacs, when a noise sent him close to the ground. Half a dozen feet away he saw a shadow creeping along toward the front door. Presently the shadow stood up as if listening. He stooped again and ran lightly to the steps, up these to the door, which he hugged. Who was this? wondered Braine. Patiently he waited, arranging his posture so that he could keep a lookout at the door. By and by the door opened cautiously. A man holding a candle appeared. Braine vaguely recognized Olga's description of the butler. The man on the veranda suddenly blew out the light. Braine could hear the low murmur of voices, but nothing more. The conversation lasted scarcely a minute. The door closed and the man, ran down the steps, across the lawn, with Braine close at his heels. "Just a moment, Mr. Hargreave," he called ironically; "just a moment!" The man he addressed as Hargreave turned with lightning rapidity and struck. The blow caught Braine above the ear, knocking him flat. When he regained his feet the rumble of a motor told him the rest of the story.