"Am I awake?" was the question he put his consciousness.

Wondering, he bent forward and drew the tip of one forefinger
across the black polished wood of the writing-bed. It left a dark,
heavy line. And beside it, clearly defined in the heavy layer of
dust, was the silhouette of a hand; a woman's hand, small,
delicate, unmistakably feminine of contour.

"Well!" declared Maitland frankly, "I _am_ damned!"

Further and closer inspection developed the fact that the imprint
had been only recently made. Within the hour,--unless Maitland
were indeed mad or dreaming,--a woman had stood by that desk and
rested a hand, palm down, upon it; not yet had the dust had time
to settle and blur the sharp outlines.

Maitland shook his head with bewilderment, thinking of the grey
girl. But no. He rejected his half-formed explanation--the obvious
one. Besides, what had he there worth a thief's while? Beyond a
few articles of "virtue and bigotry" and his pictures, there was
nothing valuable in the entire flat. His papers? But he had
nothing; a handful of letters, cheque book, a pass book, a
japanned tin despatch box containing some business memoranda and
papers destined eventually for Bannerman's hands; but nothing
negotiable, nothing worth a burglar's while.

It was a flat-topped desk, of mahogany, with two pedestals of
drawers, all locked. Maitland determined this latter fact by
trying to open them without a key; failing, his key-ring solved