"No," said Arnold looking down, "it may be on the wall.
"Not unless Brand threw a cup at her head." Tracey glanced round the walls; they were all spotless and white. "Maybe on the carpet."
"Have you examined the carpets?"
"I haven't lifted them, if that's what you mean."
"Then I dare say the papers are hidden under the carpet of this room."
"Why here? It may be the dining-room, or----"
"No," replied Arnold rising, "a coffee-stain would show only on a white carpet, and it was the peculiar furnishing of this room which gave her the idea of the hiding-place"--he looked carefully at the floor--"but I can't see any stain."
"A woman like Mrs. Brand," suggested Tracey, "proud of the smartness of this room, would hide any stain. Let's move all mats and furniture."
Calvert thought this was a good suggestion, and they set to work. The piano was moved, but needless to say nothing was found there. The various draperies were pulled aside. A book-case was shifted. All the mats were flung out of the door. When they moved everything, still no stain appeared. Then they came to a thick wooden pedestal bearing a plaster-of-paris Venus. It was screwed to the floor near the window and surrounded by mats. "This is the last chance," said Tracey.
A few minutes' work sufficed to overturn the column. There, beneath it, and concealed by the base, was the coffee-stain spoiling the purity of the carpet. Tracey produced a large knife, and ripped up the carpet. Thrusting in his hand he pulled out a slim green book rather large in size, and thereon in gilt letters were the words "My Diary!"