“That proves the monkey has made other visits to my bedroom,” broke in Curtis grimly. “With what object, I wonder—”
“To steal—”
“What?”
McLane shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll answer that later—when I know,” he added dryly. “I wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a child’s hand which I had seen on the counterpane, so I came back to your room, Dave, just before leaving the house, only to find that the counterpane had been changed in our absence.”
Curtis whistled softly. “I’ll be everlastingly blessed!” he ejaculated. “Well, we have one clue to go upon which will enable us to identify the person so interested in my room,” he spoke with renewed energy. “And that is the monkey. People who possess monkeys in this vicinity are not numerous. We should have little difficulty in locating the owner of my midnight visitor.”
“I can tell you the owner’s name now—”
“You can?” Curtis was quick to detect the odd inflection in McLane’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Anne Meredith.”
The answer was unexpected. Curtis drew in his breath sharply.