"Who—who are you?" Marjorie demanded with a regrettable quaver. "Have you come after the Green Box? Because, if so—"
"Would you mind," he said very gently, "putting down your pistol? Those things are so apt to go off unexpectedly, and at the moment you appear to be aiming at my uncle's best beloved Bone—"
The revolver fell softly on the thick carpet. Marjorie felt like falling after it.
"Thank you," he said gratefully. "You have mentioned a Green Box, but having brought no luggage, I don't seem to grasp—"
"Your uncle!" she whispered.
"Mr. Christopher Craig." He regarded her for a moment and his expression changed. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that he is no longer tenant of the house? You see, I arrived late, and deciding not to disturb any one, just proceeded to make myself comfortable for the night, and—"
Marjorie pulled herself together. "You are not—"
At that instant Caw, breathing hard, sprang from the darkness, then stopped as if shot.
"Well, Caw," said the young man, "I'm jolly glad to see you."
"Oh, my good God!" gasped Caw, "it's Mr. Alan!" He began to shake where he stood.