Mrs.
De Peyster's suite. He'd been particularly ordered to touch up Mrs. De
Peyster's private desk, he said."

"And you gave him the key?" inquired Mr. Pyecroft, asking the very
question that was struggling at Mrs. De Peyster's lips.

"I told him I didn't have a key," said Matilda.

"Oh!" breathed Mrs. De Peyster.

"But," continued Matilda, "he said it didn't matter, for he said he'd
been brought up a locksmith. And he picked the lock right before my
eyes."

"That's one accomplishment of gentlemanliness I was never properly
instructed in," said Mr. Pyecroft regretfully, almost plaintively. "I
never could pick a lock."

"And where--is he now?" inquired Mrs. De Peyster.

"In Mrs. De Peyster's sitting-room, retouching her desk."

"He's certainly after something, and after it hot--and probably
something big," mused Mr. Pyecroft. "Any idea what it can be,
Matilda?"

Matilda had none.

"Any idea, Angelica?"

Mrs. De Peyster was beginning to have an idea, and a terrified idea;
but she likewise said she had none.

Mrs. De Peyster wished Mr. Pyecroft would go, so she could give way
to her feelings, talk with Matilda. But Mr. Pyecroft stretched out
his legs, settled back, clasped his hands behind his head, and looked
thoughtfully at the ceiling. He had an intellectual interest in some
imaginary escapade of the far-distant Mrs. De Peyster; but no more;
and he was obviously comfortable where he was.

Matilda started out, but was recalled by a glance of imperative appeal
from Mrs. De Peyster. And so the three sat on in silence for a time,
Mrs. De Peyster and Matilda taut with expectant fear, Mr. Pyecroft
loungingly unconcerned.

And thus they were still sitting when there was a knock, which Mr.
Pyecroft answered. The cabinet-maker entered. He wore a slouching,
ready-made suit and a celluloid collar with ready-made bow tie snapped
by an elastic over his collar-button--the conventional garb of the
artisan who aspires for the air of gentlemanliness while at work. His
face, though fresh-shaven, was dark with the sub-cutaneous stubble
of a heavy beard; his eyes were furtive, with that masked gleam of
Olympian all-confidence which a detective can never entirely mask.

"How are you, Miss Simpson?" he said to Matilda. "Your niece told me
I'd find you here, so I came right up. Could I have a word with you
outside?"

"Couldn't you have it here just as well," suggested Mr. Pyecroft--who
somehow had imperceptibly taken o