“Doesn’t Mr. Blake know anything about it?”

The faintest shadow of a change came into her manner.  “Yes,” said she, “I told him at breakfast time; but Mr. Blake doesn’t take much interest in his servants; he leaves all such matters to me.”

“Then he does not know you have come for the police?”

“No, sir, and O, if you would be so good as to keep it from him.  It is not necessary he should know.  I shall let you in the back way.  Mr. Blake is a man who never meddles with anything, and—­”

“What did Mr. Blake say this morning when you told him that this girl—­By the way, what is her name?”

“Emily.”

“That this girl, Emily, had disappeared during the night?”

“Not much of anything, sir.  He was sitting at the breakfast table reading his paper, he merely looked up, frowned a little in an absent-minded way, and told me I must manage the servants’ affairs without troubling him.”

“And you let it drop?”

“Yes sir; Mr. Blake is not a man to speak twice to.”

I could easily believe that from what I had seen of him in public, for though by no means a harsh looking man, he had a reserved air which if maintained in private must have made him very difficult of approach.

We were now within a half block or so of the old-fashioned mansion regarded by this scion of New York’s aristocracy as one of the most desirable residences in the city; so motioning to the man who had accompanied me to take his stand in a doorway near by and watch for the signal I would give him in case I wanted Mr. Gryce, I turned to the woman, who was now all in a flutter, and asked her how she proposed to get me into the house without the knowledge of Mr. Blake.

“O sir, all you have got to do is to follow me right up the back stairs; he won’t notice, or if he does will not ask any questions.”

And having by this time reached the basement door, she took out a key from her pocket and inserting it in the lock, at once admitted us into the dwelling.

CHAPTER II

A FEW POINTS

Mrs. Daniels, for that was her name, took me at once up stairs to the third story back room.  As we passed through the halls, I could not but notice how rich, though sombre were the old fashioned walls and heavily frescoed ceilings, so different in style and coloring from what we see now-a-days in our secret penetrations into Fifth Avenue mansions.  Many as are the wealthy houses I have been called upon to enter in the line of my profession, I had never crossed the threshold of such an one as this before, and impervious as I am to any foolish sentimentalities, I felt a certain degree of awe at the thought of invading with police investigation, this home of ancient Knicker-bocker respectability.  But once in the room of the missing girl, every consideration fled save that of professional pride and curiosity.  For almost at first blush,