* * * * *

III

Mrs. Marteen stood at her desk, a mammoth affair of Jacobean type, holding in her hand a sheet of crested paper, scrawled over in a large, tempestuous hand.

     MY DEAR MRS. MARTEEN: 

If you will be so good as to drop in at the library at five, it will give me great pleasure to go over with you the details of my stewardship.  The commission with which you honored me has, I think, been well directed to an excellent result.  Moreover, a little chat with you will be, as always, a real pleasure to—­

      Yours in all admiration,

      J. MARCUS GARD.

P.S.—­I suggest your coming here, as the details of business are best transacted in the quiet of a business office, and I therefore crave your presence and indulgence.—­

     J.M.G.

Mrs. Marteen was dressing for the street; her hands were gloved, her sable muff swung from a gem-studded chain, her veil was nicely adjusted; yet she hesitated, her eyes upon a busy silver clock that already marked the appointed hour.  The room was large, wainscoted in dark paneling; a capacious fireplace jutted far out, and was made further conspicuous by two settees of worm-eaten oak.  The chairs that backed along the walls were of stalwart pattern.  A collection of English silver tankards was the chief decoration, save straight hangings of Cordova leather at the windows, and a Spanish embroidery, tarnished with age, that swung beside the door.  Hardly a woman’s room, and yet feminine in its minor touches; the gallooned red velvet cushions of the Venetian armchair; the violets that from every available place shed their fresh perfume on the quiet air, a summer window box crowded with hyacinths, the wicker basket, home of a languishing Pekinese spaniel, tucked under one corner of the table.  Mrs. Marteen continued to hesitate, and the hands of the clock to travel relentlessly.

Suddenly drawing herself erect, she walked with no uncertain tread to the right-hand wall of the mantel and pushed back a double panel of the wainscoting, revealing the muzzle of a steel safe let into the masonry of the wall.  A few deft twirls opened the combination, and the metal door swung outward.  Within the recess the pigeonholes were crammed with papers and morocco jewel cases.  Pressing a secret spring, a second door jarred open in the left inner wall.  From this receptacle she withdrew several packets of letters and a set of plates with their accompanying prints.  Over them all she slipped a heavy rubber band, laid them aside and closed the hiding place with methodical care.  The compromising documents disappeared within the warm hollow of her muff, and with a last glance around, Mrs. Marteen unlocked the door and descended to the street, where her walnut-brown limousine awaited her.  Her face, which had been vivid with emotion, took on its accustomed mask of