There was a long, sickening wait.  Plainly William had gone to bed, and had to dress before he could answer the bell.

At length, however, William appeared.  He started at sight of the four figures; then his gaze fastened on Matilda and grew hard.  Mrs. De Peyster tried to collapse within herself.

“Friend,” said the officer, “here’s a lady as says she’s Matilda Simpson, Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper.  How about it?”

“She is,” William affirmed coldly.

“The devil!” said the officer; and then in a low voice apart to the other:  “Lucky we didn’t go no further—­hey, Bill?” And again to William:  “Miss Simpson says this other lady is her sister, visitin’ her from Syracuse.  Can you identify her?”

William did not alter a line in his face.

“Miss Simpson has a sister living near Syracuse.  I have never seen her.  I cannot identify her.”

“H’m,” said the officer.

“Is that all?” asked William.

“Yes, that’ll do.  Thanks.”

With a cold blighting glare at Matilda, William withdrew.

“Well, ladies,” said the officer with ingratiating pleasantness, “I’m mighty glad it’s all right.  If you have occasion, Miss Simpson, to speak o’ this here little incident to Mrs. De Peyster when she gets back from Europe, just explain it as due to over-zealousness, if you don’t mind—­desire to safeguard her interests.  D’you get me?  Headquarters is awful sensitive to kicks from you rich people; and the boss comes down on you like a ton o’ bricks.  It’ll be mighty kind o’ you.  Good-night.  Don’t bother to come down with us.  I noticed it was a spring lock.  We can let ourselves out.”

When the two policemen were out of the room, Mrs. De Peyster and Matilda collapsed into each others’ arms and their bodies sank limply forward from their chairs upon the dining-table.  “Matilda, what an escape!” shivered Mrs. De Peyster; and she lay there, gathering breath, regathering strength, regathering poise, while the officers’ steps grew dimmer and more dim.  She was palpitant, yet able to think.  Certainly it had been a narrow escape.  But that danger was now over.  There now remained only the feat of getting into her room, unnoticed by Jack.  This they could manage when they were certain that Jack and Mary were asleep.

Relief, hope, courage once more began to rise within her.

Then suddenly she sat upright.  Footsteps were sounding below—­growing nearer—­heavy footsteps—­what sounded like more than two pairs of footsteps.  She sat as one palsied; and before she could recover strength or faculties, there in the doorway were the two policemen.  And with them was a gentleman in a cap and tan summer overcoat buttoned to the chin.

The gentleman was the Reverend Mr. Pyecroft; and the Mr. Pyecroft they had first seen:  bland, oh, so bland, with that odd, elderish look of his.

“Met him goin’ down the servants’ steps as we were goin’ out, and he asked us—­” the officer was beginning.