But the girl ran on with a sort of eager unconcern:  “Sir Henry and Mr. Meadows took the whole thing in charge.  The door had been broken open.  They examined the marks about the fractures very carefully; then they went inside.  There were some naked footprints.  They were small, as of a little, cramped foot, and they seemed to be tracked in blood on the hard oak floor.  There was a wax candle partly burned on the table.  And that’s all there was.

“There were some tracks in the dust of the floor, but they were not very clearly outlined, and Sir Henry thought nothing could be made of them.

“It was awfully exciting.  I went about behind the two men.  Sir Henry talked all the time.  Mr. Meadows was quite as much interested, but he didn’t say anything.  He seemed to say less as the thing went on.

“They went over everything — the ground outside and every inch of the house.  Then they put everybody out and sat down by a table in the room where the footprints were.

“Sir Henry had been awfully careful.  He had a big lens with which to examine the marks of the bloody footprints.  He was like a man on the trail of a buried treasure.  He shouted over everything, thrust his glass into Mr. Meadows’ hand and bade him verify what he had seen.  His ardor was infectious.  I caught it myself.

“Mr. Meadows, in his quiet manner, was just as much concerned in unraveling the thing as Sir Henry.  I never had so wild a time in all my life.  Finally, when Sir Henry put everybody else out and closed the door, and the three of us sat down at the table to try to untangle the thing, I very nearly screamed with excitement.  Mr. Meadows sat with his arms folded, not saying a word; but Sir Henry went ahead with his explanation.”

The girl looked like a vivid portrait, the soft colors of her gown and all the cool, vivid extravagancies of youth distinguished in her.  Her words indicated fervor and excited energy; but they were not evidenced in her face or manner.  She was cool and lovely.  One would have thought that she recounted the inanities of a curate’s tea party.

The aged man, in the khaki uniform of a major of yeomanry, remained in his position at the window.  The old woman sat with her implacable face, unchanging like a thing insensible and inorganic.

This unsympathetic aspect about the girl did not seem to disturb her.  She went on: 

“The thing was thrilling.  It was better than any theater — the three of us at the old mahogany table in the room, and the Scotland Yard patrol outside.

“Sir Henry was bubbling over with his theory. `I read this riddle like a printed page,’ he said. `It will be the work of a little band of expert cracksmen that the Continent has kindly sent us.  We have had some samples of their work in Brompton Road.  They are professional crooks of a high order — very clever at breaking in a door, and, like all the criminal groups that we get without an invitation from over the Channel, these crooks have absolutely no regard for human life.’