my bedroom or small sitting-room, I supposed that it—whatever it might be—would be sent next morning. Then I forgot the matter. 

 I wished to sleep, for I needed clearness of brain for my task. But sleep wouldn't come. After I had courted it in the dark for a few minutes, I switched on the electric light over my bed, smoked a cigarette or two; and when my nerves were calmer, began studying Roger's electrical invention as described in two documents, a sketch of Miss Odell's famous mummy-case, with the wiring attached, and a separate paper of directions how to set and detach the mechanism. 

 Suddenly, in the midst, a wave of sleep poured over me, sweeping me to dreamland. I have a vague recollection of slipping one paper under the pillow, and I must have dropped off with the other in my hand. I was seeing Maida again, asking her permission to keep the white rose, and receiving it, when some sound brought me back to realities. I sat up in bed and looked around the room, my impression being that someone had been there. Nothing was disarranged, however. All seemed as I had left it—except—yes, there was one change! My eyes fastened upon the shirt cuff on which I had written the licence number of the automobile. I had flung the shirt over a low screen, and had forgotten, in the rush of crowding thoughts, to copy the number in my journal. There hung the shirt as I had left it, but the number, which I had written clearly and distinctly, had become a black blur on the glazed linen. 

 I sprang out of bed, and switched on more lights. Surely I had not smudged the number by any clumsy accident. The noise I had heard—that sound like the "click" of a lock? One swift look at the shirt cuff came near to convincing me that a bit of rubber eraser had been used, and then I remembered Roger's documents. The one I had slipped under my pillow was gone. Fortunately it was useless to the uninitiated without the other! 

 I got to the door almost as quickly as if I'd never been wounded, but found the key still turned in the lock. To have slipped out and locked the door on the inside, meant a clever thief, a skilled rat d'hôtel, provided with a special instrument; but that the trick could be done I knew from hearsay. I threw open the door and looked into the dimly lit corridor. No one was visible, except the flitting figure of a very small child, in a sort of red-riding-hood, cloak, with a hood. The little creature seemed startled at the noise I made, and ran to a door which it had nearly reached. Someone must have been waiting for its return, for it was let in and the door closed. 

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