Jessie slipped out into the garden and along to the back of the terrace. The absurd nonsense of the motor-car was still going on in the lane. It was late now, and no chance of a crowd gathering there. The Honourable George clamoured for Jessie's company, and asked where she had been. But she smilingly shook her head, and declared that she was not ready; and, besides, there were many before her.

"I shall be back again practically in a quarter of an hour," she said. "I can't stir till then."

So far everything promised well. Jessie hurried back to the place where she had left Varney. He was waiting there with half a sheet of note paper in his hand.

"There is the permit," he said. "You have only to show it to anybody in authority and there will be no more difficulty. Hullo! what is all this about?"

There was a disturbance in the hall—the figure of a French maid talking volubly in two languages at once; behind her a footman, accompanied by a man who was unmistakably a plain-clothes detective, and behind him the figure of a policeman, his helmet towering above the heads of the guests.

"Somebody asking for the Countess Saens," a guest replied to a question of Varney's. "As far as I can gather, there has been a burglary at the house of the countess, and her maid seems to know something about it. But we shall know presently. Here comes the countess."

The Countess Saens came smilingly into the hall, a strikingly handsome figure in yellow satin. Jessie did not fail to notice her dark, piercing eyes.

"Who is she?" she asked Varney in a whisper. "Did you ever see such black eyes?"

"Don't know," the doctor replied. "Sort of comet of a season. Mysterious antecedents, and all that, but possesses plenty of money, gives the most splendid entertainments, and goes everywhere. I understand that she is the morganatic wife of one of the Russian grand dukes."

At any rate, the woman looked a lady to her finger tips, as Jessie was bound to admit. She came with an easy smile into the little group, and immediately her magnetic presence seemed to rivet all attention. The frightened maid ceased to scold in her polyglot way and grew coherent.

"Now let us get to the bottom of this business," the countess said gaily. "There has been a burglary at my house. Where did it take place, and what has been removed from the premises?"

"It was in your room, madame," the maid said—"in your dressing-room. I was going up to put everything right for the night and I saw the thief there."

"Would you recognize him again, Annette?" the countess asked.

"Pardon me, but it was not a man; it was a woman. And she had opened the drawers of your dressing table—she had papers in her hands. I came upon her suddenly, and she heard me. Then she caught me by the throat and half strangled me. Before I could recover my senses she had fled down the stairs and out of the house. The hall porter took her for a friend of yours, and did not stop her. Then I suppose that my feelings overcame me, and——"

"And you went off in hysterics," the countess said with a contemptuous smile. "So long as you did not lose the papers——"

"But, madame, the papers are gone! The second drawer on the left-hand side is empty."

Jessie saw the dark eyes blaze and the stern face of the countess stiffen with fury. It was only for a moment, and then the face smiled once more. But that flashing insight was a revelation to Jessie.

"I hope you will be able to recognize the woman again," the countess said. "Shall you? Speak, you idiot!"

For the maid's gaze had suddenly become riveted on Jessie. The sight of her face seemed to fascinate the little Frenchwoman. It was some minutes before she found words to express her thoughts.

"But behind," she said, pointing a forefinger at Jessie as if she had been some striking picture. "Behind, she is there. Not dressed like that, but in plain black; but she stole those papers. I can feel the touch of her fingers on my throat at this moment. There is the culprit, voilÀ!"

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" the countess cried. "How long since this has happened?"

"It is but twenty minutes ago," Annette said. "Not more than half an hour, and behold the thief——"

"Behold the congenital idiot," the countess laughed. "Miss Galloway has not been out of my sight save for a few minutes for the last hour. Let the police find out what they can, and take that poor creature home and put ice on her head.... Perhaps I had better go along. It is a perfect nuisance, but those papers were important. Will one of you call my carriage?"

The countess departed presently, smiling gaily. But Jessie had not forgotten that flashing eye and the expression on her features. She turned eagerly to Varney.

"Very strange, is it not?" she asked. "Can you see what it all means?"

"I can see perfectly well," Varney said coldly. "And I more or less hold the key to the situation. Let us assume for the moment that the countess is a spy and an intriguer. She has certain documents that somebody else badly wants. Somebody else succeeds in getting those papers by force."

"But why did the maid, Annette, pitch upon me?" Jessie asked.

"Because you were the image of the thief," Varney whispered. "Only she was dressed in black. The maid was not dreaming; she had more wits about her than we imagine. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the thief who stole those papers was no one else than Vera Galloway."

The logic was so forcible and striking that Jessie could only stand silent before it. The French maid had given Varney an important clue, though the others had been blind to it. And Vera had not disguised at the beginning of the adventure that she was engaged upon a desperate errand for the sake of the man she loved, or, at any rate, for one who was very dear to her. It had been a bold and daring thing to do, and Jessie's admiration was moved. She hoped from the bottom of her heart that Vera had the papers.

"You will know before very long," Varney said, as if reading her thoughts, "whether Vera Galloway has been successful or not. There is no question whatever in my mind that Vera was the culprit. I will give you a hint as to why she has acted in this way presently. Get a thick black wrap of some kind and conceal it as closely as possible. When you are going through the streets of London you must have something over your head."

"If I only knew where to put my hand on a wrap of that description!" Jessie said helplessly.

"Time is short, and bold measures are necessary," Varney said coolly. "There are heaps of wraps in the vestibule, and I should take the first that came to hand. If the owner wants it in the meantime it will be assumed that it has been taken by mistake."

Jessie hesitated no longer. She chose a thick black cloak and hood arrangement that folded into very little space, and then she squeezed it under her arm. Then she strolled out into the garden. It was very still and warm. London was growing quiet, so that the shrieks of the late newsboys with the evening scare could be distinctly heard there. Varney laid his hand on Jessie's arm. He had grown very grave and impressive. The yelling newsboys were growing gradually nearer.

"Listen, and tell me what they are saying," Varney whispered.

Impressed by the sudden gravity of her companion's manner, Jessie gave all her ears to the call.

"Late Special! Startling case at the War Office! Suicide of Captain Lancing, and flight of Mr. Charles Maxwell! Disappearance of official documents! Special!"

"I hear," Jessie said; "but I am afraid that I don't understand quite."

"Well, there has been a scandal at the War Office. One or two officials there have been accused of selling information to foreign Governments. I heard rumours especially with regard to Asturian affairs. Late to-night Captain Lancing shot himself in the smoking-room of his club. They took him to Charing Cross, and as I happened to look into the club a little later I followed on to the hospital to see what I could do. But I was too late, for the poor fellow was dead. Now do you see how it was that I came to see Vera Galloway?"

Jessie nodded; she did not quite understand the problem yet. What had this War Office business to do with Vera Galloway and her dangerous and desperate enterprise? She looked inquiringly at her companion.

"We had better get along," he said. "I see Pongo is waiting for you. Tuck that wrap a little closer under your arm so that it may not be seen. And as soon as you get back come to me and let me know exactly what has happened. I ought to be ashamed of myself. I ought to lay all the facts of this case before my charming hostess; but there are events here beyond the usual society tenets. My dear child, don't you know who the Charles Maxwell is whose name those boys are yelling? Does not the name seem familiar to you? Come, you are quick as a rule."

"Oh, yes," Jessie gasped. "That was the name that Prince Mazaroff mentioned. Dr. Varney, it is the man to whom Vera Galloway is engaged, or practically engaged. What a dreadful business altogether."

"Yes," Varney said curtly, "the plot is thickening. Now for the motor-car."