Dorothy turned over the piece of paper to find as she expected that the other side was blank. No signature. Nothing but the double warning, and the admonition to destroy the missive and to do so at once. Evidently the writer either believed or knew for certain that she would shortly be disturbed. There was no fireplace in the bedroom. Even though she tore the note into bits, some of the scraps might be found and pieced together should she throw them out the window; and her room might be searched at any time. How could she make way with it? For a moment or two Dorothy was at a loss. Mechanically her fingers tore the paper into fine shreds.

Then she smiled. “I guess we’ll let the plumbing take care of you,” she said, gazing down on the little pile of paper on her palm, and she disappeared into the bathroom.

When she returned, Dorothy opened Janet’s over-night bag, took out a pair of green silk pajamas, bedroom slippers and toilet accessories, among which was a new toothbrush in a case. This, and the underwear she had on were the only belongings of her own that she had retained.

From Janet’s purse, she extracted the trunk key. After some rummaging in that large travelling wardrobe, she found a quilted bathrobe of pale pink satin on a hanger toward the back. It was too late to unpack entirely, and she was about to close and relock the trunk, when she decided to leave it open. The Janet Jordan she was portraying had never waked up at the famous meeting of last week. That Janet would feel outraged at her imprisonment, her father’s seeming callousness and would naturally be furious at being packed up here willy-nilly: but she would have no cause to be suspicious of these people in this big stone house. If she had locked the trunk—Dorothy realized she had almost made a mistake, although a minor one—and in her present position mistakes were dangerous affairs.

Although it was very late and the day had been a strenuous one Dorothy did not feel tired. While she undressed, she went over in her mind the new vistas opened up by this mysterious note she had just destroyed. As she dissected it word by word from memory, she was astonished to find that the scrap of paper carried much interesting information between the lines.

Undoubtedly, Ashton Sanborn had planted a member of his organization in the house, but how that had been possible, she could not imagine. First of all, there was the warning to be on her guard. That Mrs. Lawson was indicated she had no doubt. Her hostess, while seeming most charming and courteous, had nevertheless suggested the hot lemonade which the note told her not to drink. It was quite likely that her unknown adviser had reason to think that the lemonade would be drugged. And then these people could hardly mean to poison her so soon after her arrival. For their whole idea in bringing her to Winncote, as she understood it, was to make sure whether the real Janet had heard their secrets or not. No—they merely wanted her to sleep soundly. But why?

Dorothy pondered on this for several minutes. There could be only one reason, she decided. Somebody was planning to enter her bedroom tonight, and wished to do so without her knowledge. What their purpose might be she could not guess and she did not bother about it. To a girl of a nervous temperament, such as Janet Jordan, the knowledge that such a visit was planned and success arranged for by means of a drug, would have been torture. But Dorothy, who could feel “Flash” in his holster just above her knee was merely worried for fear that lemonade or no lemonade she would fall asleep. The arrival here had been uneventful enough after what had happened at the Jordans’ apartment. At least, to all outward appearances it had been smooth sailing. She was beginning to realize that nothing with these people was what it seemed to be. She had climbed her Vesuvius and was standing at the crater’s edge. Already the first rumblings of the eruption had been heard.

Her position, though seemingly secure, was nothing of the kind. The sooner Ashton Sanborn gave her the orders he had promised, and she could carry them out and get away from this place, the better for Dorothy Dixon. And yet she could not help a feeling of exhilaration.

There came a gentle knock on her door. Wearing her quilted wrapper and slippers she turned the key and opened to—the imposing Tunbridge. He bore a small tray on which stood a steaming tumbler, a bowl of sugar, two spoons and a napkin. “Your hot lemonade, Miss Jordan,” he announced in his pompous voice and rather as though he were offering her a priceless gift. “Mrs. Lawson’s instructions are to drink it after you get in bed, Miss. May I mention also that it is very hot?”

Dorothy took the tray. “Thank you, Tunbridge, I’ll be careful. Good night!”

“Good night, Miss.”

The butler departed in the direction of the stairway, and Dorothy closed the door and locked it again.

She set the tray on a chair beside her bed and put two spoonfuls of sugar into the tall glass. It was too hot for anyone to drink yet, so she went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Five minutes later she switched off all the lights except the one on the head board. Then she got into bed, picked up the glass and stirred her lemonade, making sure that the spoon tinkled against the glass. If anyone was listening outside her door they would naturally think she was drinking the stuff.

After waiting a moment or two longer, she set the glass down on the tray with a thump that might have been heard on the gallery. But the glass remained in her hand. Off went her light now, and still holding the lemonade she got quickly and quietly out of bed. A silent trip to the bathroom in the dark and she emptied the lemonade into her washbowl. Then she came back and placed the empty glass on the tray. She hurried over to the bow window, opened a sash, turned off the heat in the radiator and crawled into bed again.

The bed was to the left of the door as one entered the room. By lying on her right side Dorothy held the entire room within her view. After the soft glare from the shaded electric lights, it seemed inky black, but soon her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. In the wall just beyond the foot of the bed was the closed door of her closet. The trunk stood beyond that in the corner. The alcove and window seat took up a large section of the farther wall and in the corner, diagonally across from where she lay was a dark spot—the writing desk. Opposite her bed was the half open door to the bathroom. The dressing table, the door to the hall but a few feet from her head—mentally she had completed her tour of the room.

Then for a long while, or so it seemed to the excited girl, she lay there waiting. Of course her door was locked, but the affair of the Winged Cartwheels a few months before had taught Dorothy that keys may be turned from the outside with a pair of small pincers. Her mind now set itself on the key in the door. In vain she listened for the warning click that would come when it turned in the lock. Now that she was lying in bed she began to discover how tired she was. It became harder and harder to stay awake.

She knew that she must have dozed, for without warning a light appeared, a golden circle on the center of the rug. Instantly she was wide awake and her hand beneath the blankets drew her throwing knife from its sheath. Through half-closed eyelids she made out a dark figure holding a flash light pointed toward the floor.

Then the glowing circle moved to the empty glass beside her bed, and Dorothy closed her eyes. For a moment it rested upon her face and she heard a low chuckle. Dorothy knew that voice. Her visitor was Laura Lawson.

The light swept away from her face. Mrs. Lawson touched the wall switch by the door and the bedroom sprang into light. The drug in the lemonade must have been a strong one, for it was evident that the intruder had no fear of her awakening. Without wasting another glance on Dorothy, Laura Lawson went to the wardrobe trunk and commenced a detailed inspection of its contents.

The woman’s back was turned, so Dorothy had no difficulty in watching her movements. Everything in the trunk was taken out, glanced at and put back exactly as it had been. This took some time, and it was fully half an hour before her hostess finished with the trunk. Next she overhauled the small travelling bag and the purse. Then the empty drawers of the dressing table and desk came under the woman’s eye. The pillows and cushions of the window seat were lifted. The rug was turned back. Every nook and cranny of the room and closet came under observation. Then she went into the bathroom.

“What under the shining canopy can she be looking for?” Dorothy marveled. “It can’t be the note I got tonight. She proposed the lemonade before that could have been written. I wonder if she’ll search the bed? She mustn’t find Flash—”

When Laura Lawson returned to the bedroom, she saw that the sleeper had turned over and was now facing the wall. For a moment she gazed down on the girl, then her hand crept under the pillow. Finding nothing there, the covers were pulled back to the foot of the bed.

Dorothy felt the cold breeze from the open window blowing on her pajamaed body, but she did not move. Presently sheet, blankets and silk comfort were replaced and the woman left the bedside. Dorothy chuckled inwardly. Flash was still safe. She was lying on him.

Off went the light. Dorothy knew that Mrs. Lawson’s slippered feet would make no sound on the thick pile of the rug. She waited to hear the door open and close, but heard nothing. With her face to the wall, she could see nothing. The strain of lying motionless became nerve wracking. What was the woman doing anyhow? Slowly she rolled over again. So far as she could tell, the room was empty.

For what seemed an age Dorothy lay, listening. Except for the wind sighing through the bare trees outside her window, there was no other sound. She felt nervous and unpleasantly excited. She must know if the door had been left unlocked. Slipping out of bed she tiptoed across to it and tried the handle. The door did not give.

Suddenly she froze against the panels. A dim glow appeared on the opposite wall as the closet door swung slowly back, and outlined in the opening was the tall figure of Tunbridge.