Turning from the desk Kent walked over to the table which he knew
was Philip Rochester's property; he recalled having once seen Jimmie
place some papers there by mistake; having done so once, the mistake
might have occurred again. Taking out his partner's bunch of keys,
he soon found one that fitted and opened the drawers. He had half
completed his task, without finding any clew to the missing
securities, when he was interrupted by the sound of the opening of
the front door, and had but time to slam the drawers shut and pocket
the keys when the night clerk of the hotel stepped inside the
apartment and, closely followed by a sandy-haired man, walked into
the living room. He halted abruptly at sight of Kent.
"Good evening, Mr. Kent," he exclaimed, and took in at a glance the
orderly arrangement of the room. "Pardon my unceremonious entrance,
but I had no idea you were here, sir; we received a telephone
message that a burglar had broken in here."
"You did!" Kent stared at him. Was he right, after all, in his
conjecture; had the man been Philip Rochester? It would seem so,
for who else, after taking refuge elsewhere, would have telephoned
a warning of burglars to the hotel office? "Have you any idea who
sent the message, Mr.
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