"Where is Nordheim?" interjected Burke quickly, a little of his "third degree" training getting the upper hand.
"Nordheim?"
"Yes—you know. Tell me. Is he here?"
"Here? Isn't it bad enough to hound him, without hounding me, too? Will you merciless detectives drive us all from place to place with your brutal suspicions?"
"Merciless?" inquired Burke, smiling with sarcasm. "Who has been hounding him?"
"You know very well what I mean," she repeated, drawing herself up to her full height and patting Gladys's hand to reassure her. "Read that message on the table."
Burke picked up a yellow telegram dated New York, two days before.
It was as I feared when I left you. The secret service must have rummaged my baggage both here and at the hotel. They have taken some very vaulable papers of mine.
"Secret service—rummage baggage?" repeated Burke, himself now in perplexity. "That is news to me. We have rummaged no trunks or bags, least of all Nordheim's. In fact, we have never been able to find them at all."
"Upstairs, Burke—the servants' quarters," interrupted Craig impatiently. "We are wasting time here."
Mrs. Brainard offered no protest. I began to think that the whole thing was indeed a surprise to her, and that she had, in fact, been reading, instead of mak-
