Whitewash. Ethel Watts Mumford

snatched up the light, and leaned out as she raised it high above her head. "Who's there?" Her voice rang sharp and loud.

      The light fell full on the startled face of the man. A handsome face, whose yellow hair and contrasting black eyes were unmistakable.

      The Englishman!" whispered Victoria.

      For an instant only, fear shone in his eyes—almost at once his face cleared to a charming smile.

      "Don't be frightened," he said, softly, in very bad French, "it is nothing. My friend amused himself by locking me in my room for a joke, so I crawled out on the balcony and over the roofs to get even with him. Don't wake up the house. I'm awfully sorry I frightened you." He nodded pleasantly, and disappeared over the gutter's edge into the darkness below.

      They heard him reach the courtyard; they heard his footsteps cross the court, and the lift of the latch as he let himself into the street by ​the stable gate. The girls stared at each other in silence; then Sonia laughed.

      "That's a joke on us, as you say, but it has frightened sleep from me for the rest of the night."

      Victoria crossed to the table, took up one of her Russian friend's cigarettes, lighted it, and began to walk the floor.

      Pausing abruptly before her companion, she inquired, sharply, "What did he want with a camera at night?"

      "I don't know, I'm sure. Did he have one?"

      "Yes, I saw it—a five by eight, I should say—in its black leather case, slung over his shoulder."

      "Flashlight," suggested Sonia.

      Victoria shook her head. "Aren't the odd numbers on this side of the hall?"

      Sonia nodded in bewilderment.

      "Then why did he say he climbed out on the balcony? The balcony is on the front, and the chambermaid said fifty-seven."

      "She may have made a mistake."

      "He's not an Englishman."

      ​"He never said he was."

      "I know; but he's dressing the part and has overdone it."

      "Well?"

      Victoria frowned and threw the cigarette out of the open window with unnecessary energy. "Sonia," she said, gravely, "you know I am going back to America in November. My passage is taken. The estate must be settled, I can't put it off. Now if I take this thing up it may mean endless trouble for me and legal complications. Sonia, you have to do it. Go down-stairs and find out if that man's story is true. Arouse somebody—everybody—but find out! Leave me out of it when you tell your story. Go on; there is no time to lose. I'll meet you down-stairs as if I had just come in. Go!"

      Sonia sprang to her feet and disappeared down the hallway. Victoria followed a moment later, and joined her friend in the deserted office. With some difficulty they aroused a weary chambermaid.

      "The Englishman! why, the young ladies were dreaming. The gentleman had gone away that ​afternoon, just before dinner, saying he felt so badly he thought it best to go to his home."

      The girls caught at each other with a common impulse. "The landlord—wake him up. Where is he?"

      The chambermaid demurred. "It had been a busy day. They were all worn out. Was it permitted that people with nightmare should be waking honest folk out of their sleep—"

      Victoria sprang at her and shook her by the shoulders. "Wake the landlord, do you hear? There is something wrong. It must be looked into."

      Further parleying was made unnecessary by the appearance of the host, his suspenders hanging, his face swollen with drowsiness, and an expression anything but good-humored.

      Sonia stated the case to him with hurried clearness, but his brain, being sleep-clouded and French, failed to take in its import.

      "The Englishman in fifty-seven? He had paid his bill and gone. Was it permitted to wake people at midnight, name of a name, with such stories?"

      ​Victoria's anger mounted with opposition. "Very well, then. Mademoiselle Palintzka had given him warning. If a crime had been committed and the culprit escaped, his was the responsibility. Mademoiselle had done all she could. Where was the commissaire of police? He should be notified, then mademoiselle would wash her hands of the whole affair."

      At the mention of police the fat little man shook his lethargy from him and announced himself willing to investigate—but what, and where?

      "Take the pass-keys and a light, and rouse every one in the front of the house," Sonia commanded. "Undoubtedly the man came from there. If the occupants were out of the place, look about and see if anything has been disturbed."

      The garçon-de-peine appeared inopportunely, and the party was once more delayed while voluminous explanations were made to him.

      "A half-hour at least since we got here, and nothing done," Victoria fretted, as at last the cortege, composed of the garçon, chambermaid, and landlord, armed with lights, pass-keys, and ​the sabre which adorned the hall wall (a witness to the prowess of the proprietor in the Franco-Prussian War), got under way.

      An examination of the lower floor was quickly made. On the first landing the rooms opened showed only the confusion of occupancy, and the contents were of such scanty nature as to offer no allurement to thieves. Few of the patrons were in, but to these the landlord poured forth apologies and explanations that rapidly brought the excited inmates in scanty apparel to swell the throng of investigators. Room after room offered no solution of the mystery. The second floor was reached. Here the procession paused, the host addressing himself uncertainly to Sonia.

      "These were the apartments of the countess. Should they rouse her? The child was ill; there was also the maid. If any attack had been made on them they were sufficient in number to have made some outcry."

      "Knock!" commanded Sonia.

      A light tap on the door received no answer.

      "They sleep," murmured the chambermaid, ​with a scornful glance at the disturbers of her own rest

      "Louder!" said the Russian, shortly.

      Still no answer.

      "Madame la Comtesse!" called the garçon-de-peine, in discreet tones.

      "Madame!" "Madame!" in various keys from the bystanders.

      "Try the maid's door," the bonne suggested.

      A deputation attacked the two doors further down the hall. No answer.

      The party looked at each other.

      "They certainly did not go out this evening," the garçon ventured. "The little girl was worse; they had dinner in their rooms. The child was in bed then, for I brought up the tray."

      "The keys!" Victoria impatiently demanded. "You are losing time. Go in!"

      The keys were produced and fitted to the lock, but not until the whole party had once more invoked the countess to answer. The door was opened slowly, and they entered, preceded by the landlord, vaguely muttering apologies.

      The candles lit up a scene of the wildest con​fusion. The drawers of the bureau were emptied upon the floor, a trunk stood open, from which the tilted trays had spilled their contents.

      On the bed lay the countess, breathing heavily, a handkerchief over her head. The air was full of the smell of chloroform.

      Sonia snatched the saturated linen from the woman's face, while Victoria hurried to the adjoining room. The same confusion reigned, but to a less degree. The thief had evidently known where to look for his booty.

      The sick child was stretched stiffly on her side, a little ball of cotton at her nostrils. Across the foot of the bed the maid lay huddled, a gag in her mouth and a cloth securely tied above it. Evidently she had been overpowered before the anæsthetic had been