She had planned out a campaign for this holiday and wanted to be sure just how the land lay.

So she arrived at The Ledge three hours ahead of even her host and hostess, the Wyndringhams, and had the house and its servants to herself, incidentally getting her pick of the guest rooms, and establishing herself so thoroughly that any contrary plans of her hostess would be futile.

Restlessly she roved from room to room. She hunted up the butler and narrowing her green eyes keenly, asked him, “Has the count arrived yet?” When he replied in the negative she commanded, “Let me know as soon as he comes!” Finally she went to the telephone, a frequent employee of hers.

First she called up Alan Monteith’s apartment, and after a long wait with prolonged ringing was answered by the janitor of the building.

No, Mr. Monteith was not there—No, he was not coming back until after Christmas—No, he had not left any address where he could be called—Yes, he had said he was leaving the city—No, he did not know how far—The party had better call the office. His partner might be there.

Demeter Cass called Alan Monteith’s city office and was answered by Alan Monteith’s secretary, who had come in to attend to some mail that must go out that morning. Yes, she said, Mr. Monteith had been in the office that morning early, but had gone and would not return until after Christmas. “Who is calling, please?”

Demeter Cass was clever. The secretary might or might not know her voice, but she gave her no satisfaction.

“Just a friend of Mr. Monteith who is a fellow guest where he is going,” she answered in honeyed tones. “I reached here an hour ago and discovered that I had left a small leather case at home that I very much need, and I was wondering if Mr. Monteith would be so good as to stop at my home and bring it for me, in case he was not started yet. I understood that he was not leaving the city till somewhere near noon.”

She understood nothing of the kind of course for Alan Monteith hadn’t mentioned noon. But she had nothing on the secretary; she knew her voice. She had heard it often enough to know it.

“I’m sorry, Miss Cass,” she said cooly, “I really don’t know whether Mr. Monteith has left the city or not. He certainly has left his office, and I would not know where to look for him.”

“Oh, really?” said Demeter Cass in a hurt tone. “That’s most unfortunate for me! It was my jewel case I left behind, and you know one really needs one’s jewels at a place like this.”

“I suppose one does,” said the secretary dryly, smiling to herself. Her employer was much too nice for this selfish, lazy, intriguing woman.

“I hate to send my chauffeur all the way back in the storm if I can possibly locate anyone coming up who could bring it.”

“I suppose you would,” said the secretary coldly. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no use,” sighed Demeter Cass, with no notion yet of giving up, for she was a clever little detective. “You don’t know whether Mr. Monteith had an errand before he left the city? There wasn’t any place at all where he might have stopped off for a few minutes? What did he come to the office for this morning? Don’t you know? That might give me some clue to follow. Excuse me, but this is a very important matter to me. Do you know what he came for?”

The secretary was getting angry, yet she dared not show it. She had no right to rebuke Alan Monteith’s friends or acquaintances. She tried to answer patiently.

“He came for some papers he had left in the safe. It wouldn’t help you in the least, Miss Cass. He was stopping for just a moment to leave them with a man who was taking a train this morning. He wouldn’t be there now. He was in a hurry!”

“Oh, really?” Demeter’s voice brightened. “And who was the man? He might happen to know where I could locate Mr.