Just here the door was flung open. There stood Martin, panting and stammering incoherently.
"What is it now?" demanded his employer.
"Is it Mr. Bertram, Martin?" queried Viola, turning quite pale. A vision had flashed up of the disconsolate burglar, lying in a pool of blood, slain by his own hand in excessive grief for the loss of his phantasmal sweetheart.
"Y-yes, ma'am! At least, I guess so. Was Mr. Bertram that other party that didn't want supper?"
By now Viola's fears had communicated themselves to her brother and Drayton. Without pausing, all three pushed past Martin and reached the library. Bertram's chair was empty. His body was nowhere in sight.
Trenmore turned on Martin. "Where is he, then?"
"I don't know, sir. I'm not saying anything against a guest of yours, Mr. Trenmore, but all I know is he went upstairs a while back and I just now went to your room, sir, to lay out your pajamas, and-and the safe's open, sir-and-"
But Trenmore waited for no more. He bounded up the stairs three steps at a time. Martin's tale proved only too true. The silk curtain was pushed back, the steel door in the wall swung wide, and the floor was as littered as that of the third-floor bedroom upon Drayton's first awakening in this much-burglarized house.
"The money," moaned Martin, wringing his hands. "All the money I saw you put in there yesterday-it's gone!"
Trenmore was rapidly running over the leather boxes, trays, and the like which were scattered about. He rose with a sigh of relief. "At least, he's taken nothing else. The money was only a couple of hundred that I can spare; but these trinkets of mine I could not easily replace."