“Inspector!” she cried, rushing towards him.  “Mr. French!  Oh, thank God!”

Her feelings carried her away.  She threw herself at his feet.  She was laughing and crying and talking incoherently, all at the same time.  The Inspector assisted her to a chair.

“Say, what’s all this mean?” he demanded.

She told him her story, incoherently, in broken phrases.  French listened with puzzled frown.

“Say, what about Quest?” he asked.  “He ain’t been here at all, then?”

She looked at him wonderingly.

“Of course not!  Mr. Quest—­”

She hesitated.  The Inspector laid his hand upon her wrist.  Then he realised that she was on the point of a nervous breakdown, and in no condition for interrogations.

“That’ll do,” he said.  “I’ll take care of you for a time, young lady, and I’ll ask you a few questions later on.  My men are searching the house.  You and I will be getting on, if you can tear yourself away.”

She laughed hysterically and hurried him towards the door.  As they passed down the gloomy stairs she clung to his arm.  The first breath of air seemed wonderful to her as they passed out into the street.  It was freedom!

* * * * *

The plain-clothes man, who was lounging in Quest’s most comfortable easy-chair and smoking one of his best cigars, suddenly laid down his paper.  He moved to the window.  A large, empty automobile stood in the street outside, from which the occupants had presumably just descended.  He hastened towards the door, which was opened, however, before he was half-way across the room.  The cigar slipped from his fingers.  It was Sanford Quest who stood there, followed by the Sheriff of Bethel, two country policemen, and Red Gallagher and his mate, heavily handcuffed.  Quest glanced at the cigar.

“Say, do you mind picking that up?” he exclaimed.  “That carpet cost me money.”

The plain-clothes man obeyed at once.  Then he edged a little towards the telephone.  Quest had opened his cigar cabinet.

“Glad you’ve left me one or two,” he remarked drily.

“Say, aren’t you wanted down yonder, Mr. Quest?” the man enquired.

“That’s all right now,” Quest told him.  “I’m ringing up Inspector French myself.  You’d better stand by the other fellows there and keep your eye on Red Gallagher and his mate.”

“I guess Mr. Quest is all right,” the Sheriff intervened.  “We’re ringing up headquarters ourselves, anyway.”

The plain-clothes man did as he was told.  Quest took up the receiver from his telephone instrument and arranged the phototelesme.

“Police-station Number One, central,” he said,—­“through to Mr. French’s office, if you please.  Mr. Quest wants to speak to him.  Yes, Sanford Quest.  No need to get excited!...  All right.  I’m through, am I?...  Hullo, Inspector?”

A rare expression of joy suddenly transfigured Quest’s face.  He was gazing downward into the little mirror.