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room, and after a few minutes Ann went in to draw his attention to the note. But he had already opened it. He was standing with it in his hand.

“Shall I have dinner ready at the usual time?” asked Ann. “Or will Mrs. Holmes be home later?”

“She’s not coming back tonight,” returned Holmes. He said no more, and Ann returned to the dining-room. But when dinner was ready, she went again to call him. He was sitting at his writing-desk, and closed a drawer quickly as she entered.

“Will you come in to dinner, Mr. Holmes?”

“I don’t want any,” he answered, without turning to her. “Have yours, will you?”

“Don’t you feel well? You’re not getting Mrs. Pratt’s ’flu, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so. How is she?”

“Better tonight. She hasn’t really been very ill. She’s getting up tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Can’t I get you anything?”

“No thanks. I’ll take some aspirin and go to bed.”

But he didn’t go to bed. He had not moved from the smoking-room when Ann, worn out after her sleepless night and hard day’s work, was herself thinking of retiring. The little girls had long ago dropped off. The whole house was quiet. What ought she to do? Something in that note had disturbed Dick Holmes profoundly. What was it? Ann didn’t dare to think. But she resolved that she would go again to the smoking-room and see what was happening. Dick Holmes was still sitting where she had left him two hours previously, but the drawer of his desk was open, and something—a small shining object—lay at his