ing in its interior save a small white disc.

"A little gummed label," explained T. B., "but the inscription is
interesting."

Ela held the locket to the light, and read:

"Mor: Cot.
God sav the Keng."

"Immensely patriotic, but unintelligible and illiterate," said T. B.,
slipping the medallion into his pocket, and locking away the dossier in
one of the drawers of his desk.

Ela yawned.

"I'm sorry--I'm rather sleepy. By the way, isn't Great Bradley, about
which you were speaking, the home of a romance?"

T. B. nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

"It is the town which shelters the Secret House," he said, as he rose,
"but the eccentricities of lovesick Americans, who build houses equally
eccentric, are not matters for police investigation. You can share my
car on a fog-breaking expedition as far as Chelsea," he added, as he
slipped into his overcoat and pulled on his gloves; "we may have the
luck to run over Montague."

"You are in the mood for miracles," said Ela, as they were descending
the stairs.

"I am in the mood for bed," replied T. B. truthfully. Outside the fog
was so thick that the two men hesitated. T. B.'s chauffeur was a wise
and patient constable, but felt in his wisdom that patience would be
wasted on an attempt to reach Chelsea.

"It's thick all along the road, sir," he said. "I've just 'phoned
through to Westminster Police Station, and they say it is madness to
attempt to take a car through the fog."

T. B. nodded.

"I'll sleep here," he said. "You'd better bed down somewhere, David, and
you, Ela?"

"I'll take a little walk in the park," said the sarcastic Mr. Ela.

T. B. went back to his room, Ela following.

He switched on the light, but stood still in the doorway. In the ten
minutes' absence some one had been there. Two drawers of the desk had
been forced; the floor was littered with papers flung there hurriedly by
the searcher.

T. B. stepped swiftly to the desk--the envelope had gone.

A window was open and the fog was swirling into the room.

"There's blood here," said Mr. Ela. He pointed to the dappled blotting
pad.

"Cut his hand on the glass," said T. B. and jerked his head to the
broken pane in the window. He peered out through the open casement. A
hook ladder, such as American firemen use, was hanging to the parapet.
So thick was the fog that it was impossible to see how long the ladder
was, but the two men pu