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through the New Jersey shadows. At the end of the driveway we saw the colonial mansion, whose wedding night festivities had been so abruptly shattered.

If we had expected a house buried in the gloom of mystery we were disappointed. "The Maples" was a blaze of light from cellar to attic. It was not until the automobile stopped at the front veranda, and the solemn face of the butler presented itself with its mutely questioning glance, that we found our first hint of crime or tragedy.

Mr. Van Sutton conducted us at once to the library—a long, high, massively furnished room toward the end of the central hall extending entirely through the house. At the door, he turned with a short bow.

"It is needless to say, of course, that the house and its inmates are at your service. I am completely ignorant of your methods, Miss Mack. If you will let me know—"

He stopped, for Madelyn had walked over to one of the long dormer windows and stood staring out into the darkness, with her hands beating a low tattoo on the glass.

"Is Mr. Endicott's room on this side?" she asked without turning.

"Almost directly overhead."

"And the drawing-room—where the ceremony