“A mysterious affair,” he pronounced. “Nothing gone, apparently, but a pile of old papers. We must telephone to the lawyers who let the place and interview the tenant. The inspector will be over this afternoon, sir, and I dare say he will be along to see you.”
The man took his leave and Mr. Johnson crossed the road and knocked at the door of the Little House. Miss Besant opened it herself and greeted him with a smile.
“I was just coming across,” she said. “Madame wants to see you.”
Mr. Johnson was ushered into the cool drawing-room, where Madame was lying upon her couch. She held out one hand and with the other waved imperiously to Miss Besant to depart.
“Something has happened—something happened last night!” she exclaimed. “What was it?”
He took the chair to which she pointed, close to her side.
“A burglary,” he confided. “I was coming in to ask you to communicate at once with Miss Endacott. The whole of the papers in the chest which was locked up in the inner library are gone.”
“The burglar,” she demanded breathlessly. “Has he been caught? Is there any clue?”
“Not at present,” Mr. Johnson acknowledged. “There hasn’t been much time.”
“He got away then?”