you grow those orchids yourself?"

Littimer laughed, with no sign of anger remaining. All the same,
Christabel could see that his thin brown hand was shaking. She noticed
the lines that pain had given under those shrewd black eyes.

"You must see my orchids," he said. "Most of the specimens I obtained
myself. They tell me I have at least three unique kinds. And now, if you
will permit me, I am going to smoke. The drawing-room is at your
disposal, though I rarely enter it myself. I always retire at eleven, but
that need not bind you in any way. It has been altogether a most
delightful evening."

But Christabel did not dally long in the drawing-room. As she went
upstairs and along the corridor she heard the snapping of the electric
lights all over the house as the servants were preparing to retire. She
paused just a moment in the alcove where the precious Rembrandt was and
located carefully the position of the switch there. Then she retired to
her own room, where she changed her dress for a simple black gown. A big
clock somewhere was striking twelve as she finished. She looked out of
her door. The whole house was in darkness, the silence seemed to cling
like a curtain.

She paused for a moment as if afraid to take the next step. If it was
fear, she shook it aside resolutely and crept into the corridor. She
carried something shining in her hands--something that gleamed in the
dim, uncertain light from the big window. She stood just for an instant
with a feeling that somebody was climbing up the ivy outside the house.
She felt her way along until she came to the alcove containing the
Rembrandt and then she stopped. Her hand slid along the wall till her
fingers touched the switch of the electric light.

She stood for a long time there perfectly motionless. It was a still
night outside, and there was nothing to account for the rustling of the
ivy leaves. The rattling came in jerks, spasmodically, stopping every now
and then and resuming again. It was no longer a matter of imagination, it
was a certainty. Somebody was climbing up the ivy to the window.

Leaning eagerly forward, Christabel could hear the sound of laboured
breathing. She seemed to see the outline of an arm outside, she could
catch the quick rattle of the sash, she could almost see a bent wire
crooked through the beaded edges of the casement. Yes, she was right.
The window swung noiselessly back and a figure stood poised on the
ledge outside.

With a qui