There must be a providence which protects fools and madmen, for I landed in a heavy clump of shrubbery, and got to my feet with no injury more serious than some scratches on hands and face, which at the time I did not even feel.  In a moment, I had found the path and was speeding toward the house.  Ahead of me flitted a dark shadow which I knew to be Godfrey, and behind me came the pad-pad of heavy feet, which could only belong to Simmonds.  And then, from the direction of the house, came the crash of broken glass.

I reached the lawn, crossed it, and traversed the short avenue which ended at the library door.  Three men were there, and Simmonds came panting up an instant later.  The detectives had their torches in their hands, and I saw that they had broken one of the glass panels of the doors, and that one of them had passed a hand through the opening and was fumbling about inside.  There was a sharp click, and the hand came back.

“There you are,” he said, threw the door open, and stood aside for his superior officer to lead the way.

“What’s wrong?” Simmonds asked.

“I don’t know—­but the girl showed a light at her window.”

“You heard nothing?”

“Not a sound.”

Simmonds hesitated.  No doubt the same thought occurred to him as to me; for the lawyer-Tartarin in me suggested that we scarcely had warrant to break our way into a sleeping house in the middle of the night.

But no such doubts seemed to disturb Godfrey.  Without a word, he caught the torch from Simmonds’s hand, and passed through the doorway.  Simmonds followed, I went next, and the two other men came last, their torches also flaring.  Three beams of light flashed about the library and showed it to be empty.  One of them—­Godfrey’s—­lingered on the high-backed chair, but this time it had no occupant.

Then Godfrey switched on the light, passed into the hall and switched on the light there.  The hall, too, was empty, and only the ticking of a tall clock disturbed the silence.  I was faltering and ready to turn back, but, to my amazement, Godfrey crossed the hall at a bound and sprang up the stair, three steps at a time.

“Make all the noise you can!” he shouted over his shoulder, and the clatter of our feet seemed enough to wake the dead.

The upper hall was also empty; and then my heart gave a sudden leap, for the circle of light from Godfrey’s torch had come to rest upon a white-robed figure, which had stolen half-way down the stair from the upper story.  It was the maid, holding her night-dress about her; and her face was as white as her gown.

Godfrey sprang to her side.

“What is it?” he asked.  “What is wrong?”

“I heard a cry,” gasped the girl.  “Down here somewhere.  And a scuffle in the dark.  A woman’s cry.  It was choked off short.”

Godfrey leaped down among us, and, as the light of a torch flashed across it, I saw that his face was livid.