She agreed to that, and after sending the Jap out for more coffee prepared to go upstairs.

Never had the thought of her own comfortable bed appealed to her so much.  But, in spite of her weariness, she could not quite resign herself to take Lizzie’s story as lightly as the detective seemed to.

“If what Lizzie says is true,” she said, taking her candle, “the upper floors of the house are even less safe than this one.”

“I imagine Lizzie’s account just now is about as reliable as her previous one as to her age,” Anderson assured her.  “I’m certain you need not worry.  Just go on up and get your beauty sleep; I’m sure you need it.”

On which ambiguous remark Miss Van Gorder took her leave, rather grimly smiling.

It was after she had gone that Anderson’s glance fell on Brooks, standing warily in the doorway.

“What are you?  The gardener?”

But Brooks was prepared for him.

“Ordinarily I drive a car,” he said.  “Just now I’m working on the place here.”

Anderson was observing him closely, with the eyes of a man ransacking his memory for a name—­a picture.  “I’ve seen you somewhere—­” he went on slowly.  “And I’ll—­place you before long.”  There was a little threat in his shrewd scrutiny.  He took a step toward Brooks.

“Not in the portrait gallery at headquarters, are you?”

“Not yet.”  Brooks’s voice was resentful.  Then he remembered his pose and his back grew supple, his whole attitude that of the respectful servant.

“Well, we slip up now and then,” said the detective slowly.  Then, apparently, he gave up his search for the name—­the pictured face.  But his manner was still suspicious.

“All right, Brooks,” he said tersely, “if you’re needed in the night, you’ll be called!”

Brooks bowed.  “Very well, sir.”  He closed the door softly behind him, glad to have escaped as well as he had.

But that he had not entirely lulled the detective’s watchfulness to rest was evident as soon as he had gone.  Anderson waited a few seconds, then moved noiselessly over to the hall door—­listened—­ opened it suddenly—­closed it again.  Then he proceeded to examine the alcove—­the stairs, where the gleaming eye had wavered like a corpse-candle before Lizzie’s affrighted vision.  He tested the terrace door and bolted it.  How much truth had there been in her story?  He could not decide, but he drew out his revolver nevertheless and gave it a quick inspection to see if it was in working order.  A smile crept over his face—­the smile of a man who has dangerous work to do and does not shrink from the prospect.  He put the revolver back in his pocket and, taking the one lighted candle remaining, went out by the hall door, as the storm burst forth in fresh fury and the window-panes of the living-room rattled before a new reverberation of thunder.

For a moment, in the living-room, except for the thunder, all was silence.  Then the creak of surreptitious footsteps broke the stillness—­light footsteps descending the alcove stairs where the gleaming eye had passed.