The man opened his coat and drew out a printed paper which at Mr. Gryce’s word he put into my hand.  It ran as follows: 

    Look out for the body of a young girl, tall, well shaped but thin,
    of fair complexion and golden hair of a peculiar bright and
    beautiful color, and when found, acquaint me at once. 
          
                                                  G.

“I don’t understand,” began I.

But Mr. Gryce tapping me on the arm said in his most deliberate tones, “Next time you examine a room in which anything of a mysterious nature has occurred, look under the bureau and if you find a comb there with several long golden hairs tangled in it, be very sure before you draw any definite conclusions, that your Fannys know what they are talking about when they declare the girl who used that comb had black hair on her head.”

CHAPTER X

THE SECRET OF MR. BLAKE’S STUDIO

“Mr. Blake is at dinner, sir, with company, but I will call him if you say so.”

“No,” returned Mr. Gryce; “show us into some room where we can be comfortable and we will wait till he has finished.”

The servant bowed, and stepping forward down the hall, opened the door of a small and cosy room heavily hung with crimson curtains.  “I will let him know that you are here,” said he, and vanished towards the dining-room.

“I doubt if Mr. Blake will enjoy the latter half of his bill of fare as much as the first,” said I, drawing up one of the luxurious arm-chairs to the side of my principal.  “I wonder if he will break away from his guests and come in here?”

“No; if I am not mistaken we shall find Mr. Blake a man of nerve.  Not a muscle of his face will show that he is disturbed.”

“Well,” said I, “I dread it.”

Mr. Gryce looked about on the gorgeous walls and the rich old fashioned furniture that surrounded him, and smiled one of his grimmest smiles.

“Well, you may,” said he.

The next instant a servant stood in the doorway, bearing to our great astonishment, a tray well set with decanter and glasses.

“Mr. Blake’s compliments, gentlemen,” said he, setting it down on the table before us.  “He hopes you will make yourselves at home and he will see you as soon as possible.”

The humph! of Mr. Gryce when the servant had gone would have done your soul good, also the look he cast at the pretty Dresden Shepherdess on the mantel-piece, as I reached out my hand towards the decanter.  Somehow it made me draw back.

“I think we had better leave his wine alone,” said he.

And for half an hour we sat there, the wine untouched between us, listening alternately to the sound of speech-making and laughter that came from the dining-room, and the solemn ticking of the clock as it counted out the seconds on the mantel-piece.  Then the guests came in from the table, filing before us past the open door on their way to the parlors.  They were all gentlemen of course—­Mr. Blake never invited ladies to his house—­and gentlemen of well known repute.  The dinner had been given in honor of a certain celebrated statesman, and the character of his guests was in keeping with that of the one thus complimented.