No one answered.  All were busy watching her whip off the lid and lift out the pile of sheets and pillow-cases with which the box was closely packed.

“Shall I unfold them?” she asked.

The detective nodded.

Taking out the topmost sheet, she shook it open.  Then the next and the next till she reached the bottom of the box.  Nothing of a criminating nature came to light.  The box as well as its contents was without mystery of any kind.  This was not an unexpected result of course, but the smile with which she began to refold the pieces and throw them back into the box, revealed one of her dimples which was almost as dangerous to the casual observer as when it revealed both.

“There,” she exclaimed, “you see!  Household linen exactly as I said.  Now may I go home?”

“Certainly, Miss Strange.”

The detective stole a sly glance at the reporter.  She was not going in for the horrors then after all.

But the reporter abated nothing of his knowing air, for while she spoke of going, she made no move towards doing so, but continued to look about the room till her glances finally settled on a long dark curtain shutting off an adjoining room.

“There’s where she lies, I suppose,” she feelingly exclaimed.  “And not one of you knows who killed her.  Somehow, I cannot understand that.  Why don’t you know when that’s what you’re hired for?” The innocence with which she uttered this was astonishing.  The detective began to look sheepish and the reporter turned aside to hide his smile.  Whether in another moment either would have spoken no one can say, for, with a mock consciousness of having said something foolish, she caught up her parasol from the table and made a start for the door.

But of course she looked back.

“I was wondering,” she recommenced, with a half wistful, half speculative air, “whether I should ask to have a peep at the place where it all happened.”

The reporter chuckled behind the pencil-end he was chewing, but the officer maintained his solemn air, for which act of self-restraint he was undoubtedly grateful when in another minute she gave a quick impulsive shudder not altogether assumed, and vehemently added:  “But I couldn’t stand the sight; no, I couldn’t!  I’m an awful coward when it comes to things like that.  Nothing in all the world would induce me to look at the woman or her room.  But I should like—­” here both her dimples came into play though she could not be said exactly to smile—­“just one little look upstairs, where he went poking about so long without any fear it seems of being interrupted.  Ever since I’ve read about it I have seen, in my mind, a picture of his wicked figure sneaking from room to room, tearing open drawers and flinging out the contents of closets just to find a little money—­a little, little money!  I shall not sleep to-night just for wondering how those high up attic rooms really look.”