"Exactly," said Fullaway. "It is precisely what she would think--under
the circumstances. Now let us see this chambermaid."

The manager opened the door of the bedroom, and called in a pretty,
somewhat shy, Scotch damsel, who betrayed a becoming confusion at the
sight of so many strangers. But she gave a plain and straightforward
account of her relations with Mademoiselle since the arrival of
yesterday. She had been in almost constant attendance on Mademoiselle
ever since her election to the post of temporary maid--had never left her
save at meal-times. The little chest had stood at Mademoiselle's bed-head
always--she had never seen it moved, or opened. There was a door leading
into the bedroom from the corridor. Mademoiselle had never left the suite
of rooms since her arrival. She had talked that morning of going for a
drive, but rain had begun to fall, and she had stayed in. Mademoiselle
had seemed utterly horrified when she discovered her loss. For a moment
she had sunk on her bed as if she were going to faint; then she had
rushed out into the corridor, just as she was, screaming for the manager
and the police.

When the pretty chambermaid had retired, Fullaway took up the box from
which the missing property was believed to have been abstracted. He
examined it with seeming indifference, yet he announced its particulars
and specifications with business-like accuracy.

"Well--this chest, cabinet, or box," he observed carelessly. "Let us look
at it. Here, gentlemen, we have a piece of well-made work. It is--yes,
eighteen inches square all ways. It is made of--yes, rosewood. Its
corners, you see, are clamped with brass. It has a swing handle, fitted
into this brass plate which is sunk into the lid. It has also three brass
letters sunk into that lid--Z. D. L. Its lock does not appear to be of