Just as she had expected, Judy found plenty of work waiting for her. The clerk at the hotel desk gave her a pile of manuscripts left by hopeful young authors. She glanced through these, waiting for the telephone to ring. All of them seemed inexcusably bad. Why, she wondered, did so many people waste their time trying to write when they had no idea of plot construction or character development?... Why didn’t the telephone ring? Peter must have had time to reach the police station.

One of Emily Grimshaw’s old clients came in and offered Judy another book manuscript. This was better than the others. She promised to read it.

“But where is Miss Grimshaw?” the author asked.

“Away,” Judy said briefly. “She left me in charge.”

Cautioning her to take care of the manuscript, the caller left. Judy’s despondent mood returned. It all seemed such a futile undertaking, helping struggling young authors who were trying to write about life when life itself was so much more important—Irene’s life.

At last the telephone rang and Judy recognized Arthur’s voice.

“We just missed Peter. Did he call you?”

“Not yet,” Judy answered.

“Then he couldn’t have heard the latest police report! The man who lets garage space to Jasper Crosby saw him driving out of the garage yesterday, and a girl was with him. It might have been Irene? That was in the morning, an hour or so after you called at the house. We haven’t learned anything else.”

“Nothing about the funeral?”

“We haven’t learned anything else,” Arthur repeated. “Jasper Crosby’s car is still out of the garage but the police have the license number. They’ll be watching for him.”

“Do you think he took Irene—away?” Judy’s voice broke. She knew what might have happened and so did he. It was impossible to talk.

Dale Meredith called up a little later and seemed very hopeful when he learned that Irene had been seen only the day before.

“She’s alive then!” he cried.

“You mean she was alive,” Judy amended gravely. “She must have been in the tower, and I was too frightened to do anything then. Now it may be too late. Jasper Crosby took her away in the car, and there was a funeral since then.”

“I don’t think it was Irene’s funeral. Honestly, I don’t. So keep on hoping and call me as soon as anything new develops.”

Judy promised him that she would and turned to see the door slowly opening.

There stood Jasper Crosby himself!

“Where’s Emily Grimshaw?” he demanded.

It took courage of the highest order for Judy to answer him calmly, in a businesslike voice. But she knew that she must. He must not know that she had ever seen or heard of Irene. She must not reveal that she had ever been near the house with the crumbling tower.

Assuming the manner of a disinterested clerk, she replied, “Miss Grimshaw is away. She left me in charge. What can I do for you?”

“Plenty,” he cried. An angry flush spread over his face. “You can tell me for one thing what happened to my sister’s poetry. The publishers say that they have never seen it.”

Judy pretended surprise. She rose and stood beside the man, her back against the door.

“There must have been some mistake,” she went on. “You can search Miss Grimshaw’s desk yourself and see if the poems are there.”

“Thanks! I will.”

He made a dive for the desk and began turning over papers recklessly, his hawk eyes searching every one.

Judy, with her back still against the door, turned the key in the lock, slowly, cautiously, so that he would not hear. Now she had him imprisoned in the room. He could not escape. But neither could she! For a moment she felt completely at his mercy.

“The poems aren’t here,” he announced in a voice that boded no good for Judy.

Quickly, then, she planned her course of action. She breathed a silent prayer that she might not fail. Aloud she said, “I’ll call Emily Grimshaw and ask her what happened to the manuscripts.”

He muttered something about making it snappy and Judy walked over to the telephone. She began dialing a number. But it was not Emily Grimshaw’s number. It was the number Peter Dobbs had given her!

“Hello!” his voice sounded over the wire.

Judy glanced at Jasper Crosby who stood near the desk. He was watching her like a cat.

“Hello! Miss Grimshaw? This is Judy. Jasper Crosby is here.”

“Who? What?” Peter sputtered.

“Jasper Crosby. He’s here in the office. He wants to know what happened to the poetry. Will you come right over?”

There followed a moment of silence. Jasper’s eyes seemed to be taking an X-ray picture of Judy’s mind. She felt that he must know she had not been talking to her employer. Then Peter’s voice, lowered and tense, “You bet your life I’ll come right over. And I’ll have the whole police force with me. Brave little Judy!”

She replaced the receiver and turned to Jasper Crosby.

“She’ll be right over. Will you wait?”

“Wait nothing,” he muttered. “Why should I wait? Say, who was that you were talking to then?”

“Emily Grimshaw,” Judy lied gallantly.

“Mighty queer. She’s home sick and then you call her up and she promises to get right up and come. Funny sickness, I call it.”

“Who said she’s sick?”

“Well, she took a fainting spell at the funeral yesterday.”

“Whose funeral?”

He detected the anxious note in her voice and became suspicious.

“Nobody’s business whose funeral it was. Emily Grimshaw can tell you. She was there. I’ll be back later to see about the poetry.”

“You’re not going!” Judy cried in alarm as he turned toward the door.

“Why not? There’s nothing to keep me.”

Judy’s thoughts answered him in a whirl. “Oh, but there is, Mr. Crosby. There’s a locked door to keep you, and if you find out that I locked it you will know that I set a trap for you, that I must have known about Irene’s disappearance. You’ll be furious! You may kill me before Peter and the police get here.”

In reality she said, “Please, Mr. Crosby. Miss Grimshaw will be only a minute and I would like to see this misunderstanding about the poetry cleared up.”

“You would, eh? Interested, aren’t you? So damned interested that you go prowling around our house like a thief.”

This startled Judy so much that she could only gasp.

“What’d you want of my sister?” he demanded.

“I wanted to tell her about the poetry,” Judy answered quickly. “You see, it’s—it’s lost.”

“The deuce it is! Then how’s Emily Grimshaw going to help matters by coming over?”

“She may know where it is. She was, well—intoxicated when it disappeared.”

Jasper Crosby gave a dry chuckle. “Eh! heh! She can’t even stay sober at a funeral. I’ll be going now. Got to see a lawyer and sue the old lady for the loss of my sister’s manuscripts.”

“Oh, no! Wait a minute! Miss Grimshaw may have them. In fact, I’m almost sure she has,” Judy cried in a panic. Anything to stall him, keep him talking until help came.

“Then tell her to send ’em to the publishers and make it snappy! I’m going.”

Judy laid her hand firmly on his arm. “You’re not going, Mr. Crosby. You’re going to wait for Emily Grimshaw.”

“Who’s giving orders around here?” he snapped. “I tell you I’m going!”

Wrenching away from her, he bolted for the door.

Judy realized that she had held him off as long as she could. Now if Peter would only come—and come quickly!

Jasper Crosby tried the door. Then he turned to Judy with an oath. “So that’s your game, is it? Well, it won’t work. See? Better give me that key right now, sister.”

“I will not give you the key.”

“Then I’ll take it from you!”

“You can’t!” Judy cried as he lurched toward her. “You don’t know where it is.”

“Then you’ll tell me!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she felt dizzy and faint. “You’ll tell me, do you hear?”

“I will—not,” she gasped. “Let me go!”

His grip on her shoulders tightened. It hurt. It hurt terribly and Judy wanted to cry out for help. But if she screamed the hotel clerk would force open the door and Jasper Crosby would be free.

“I’ll tell you wh-where the key is,” she managed to say. “It’s—it’s in the small drawer of my desk under that pile of typewriter ribbon.”

He looked at Judy shrewdly. He knew better than that. Judy was not used to deceiving people and her timidity betrayed her.

“You lie!” he shouted. “That key’s on you and I know it. But I don’t need a key. I’ll break down the door!”

“And rouse the whole hotel?” Judy asked quietly.

His hands clutched her throat now. “Then give me the key!”

She could feel it, the cold little key that she had thrust down her neck. It felt colder still when her breath was short. She tried to scream but found she could make no sound. It was then that she thought of his hands on Irene. His relentless hands....