"I daresay Chris and myself will survive that," Enid said, cheerfully.
"But we have a plan, dear aunt; we have thought it out carefully.
Reginald Henson has hidden the secret somewhere and we are going to find
it. The secret is hidden not far off, because our cousin has occasion to
require it frequently. It is like the purloined letter in Edgar Poe's
wonderful story."

Margaret Henson nodded and mumbled. It seemed almost impossible to make
her understand. She babbled of strange things, with her dark eyes ever
fixed on the future. Enid turned away almost despairingly. At the same
time the stable clock struck the half-hour after ten. Williams slipped
in with a tray of glasses, noiselessly. On the tray lay a small pile of
tradesmen's books. The top one was of dull red with no lettering upon
it at all.

"The housekeeper's respectful compliments, miss, and would you go through
them to-morrow?" Williams said. He tapped the top book significantly.
"To-morrow is the last day of the month."

Enid picked up the top book with strange eagerness. There were pages of
figures and cabalistic entries that no ordinary person could make
anything of. Pages here and there were signed and decorated with pink
receipt stamps. Enid glanced down the last column, and her face grew a
little paler.

"Aunt," she whispered, "I've got to go out. At once; do you understand?
There is a message here; and I am afraid that something dreadful has
happened. Can you sing?"