time. Had Mrs. Marteen been there? Of course! He took up the
incriminating documents again and thoroughly mastered their contents,
every turn of phrase, every between-the-line inference. Accidents could
happen; he must be prepared for the worst. Not that negotiations would
fail--but--not until the originals were in his hands and personally done
away with would he feel secure. He recalled Mrs. Marteen's graceful and
sumptuously clad figure, her clear-cut, beautiful head, the power of her
unwavering sapphire eyes, the gentle elegance of her voice. And this
woman--had--held him up!

He turned on the electric lamp, opened a secret compartment drawer in
the table, abstracted a tiny key, and, deftly making a packet of the
scattered proofs, unlocked a small hidden safe behind a row of first
editions of Bunyan and consigned them to secure obscurity.

A moment later his secretary entered the room in response to his ring.

"I'm going out," he said. "Lock up, will you, and at any time Mrs.
Marteen wants to see me admit her at once."

Mr. Saunders' face shone. He, too, was a devout worshiper at the shrine
of art.

"The Vandyke?" he inquired hopefully.

"Well, no--but I'm negotiating for a very remarkable series of
letters--of--er--Napoleon--concerning--er Waterloo."

* * * * *