Well—of course she had unpacked hurriedly, as hurriedly dressed for dinner, and she had been detained downstairs ever since. I should not judge in haste. Doubtless in the morning she would put things to rights. I removed a trunk-tray from the bed, hung up several frocks in the closet, cleared away the rest of the belongings from the counterpane, and arranged Althea's bed for the night. I did the rest of my work quickly, and returned to lower the light.
It couldn't be—really, no—it couldn't be! There must be some other way of accounting for those scratches on the hitherto spotless white wall, now marred by five long, brown marks, where a match had been drawn again and again before it struck into light!
It couldn't have been Althea. Yet—those marks were never there before. It was full daylight when my guest had arrived; she could have had no need for artificial light. Wait—there lay a long, black object on the white cover of the dressing-table—a curling iron!
In the hall I ran into the Skeptic.
"I beg your pardon," he cried under his breath. "I came up for her scarf. She said it was just inside her door, on her trunk. May I go in?"
"I'll get it for you," said I, and turned inside. The Skeptic stood outside the door, looking into the dimness. I could not find the scarf. I would not turn up the light. I searched and searched vainly.
"Let me give you something to see by," said the Skeptic, and before I could prevent him he had bolted into the room and turned up the lamp. "Here it is," said he, and caught up some article of apparel from the dressing-table. "Oh, no—this must be—a sash," said he, and dropped it. He stood looking about him.
"Go away," said I sternly. "I'll find it."
"I don't think you will," said he, "in this—er—this—pandemonium."
I walked over to the dressing-table and put out the lamp. "Now will you go away?" said I.