And so at last the body of Birdie Bolton was taken away to the mortuary, and Mr. Gordon, much relieved, flung open the windows and turned to his business, the secretaire and its papers. He worked quickly. . . . "Nothing there but love-letters. Wonder where she kept her will?"
"There's a safe in the bedroom, I think," Reggie said.
"You bet there is. She had all her jewels in the house, I know, and she had some good stuff, poor old girl. Well, come on; here's her keys."
They went into the bedroom, and the little Jew made for the safe. Reggie wandered across the room. It was a parquet floor with Persian rugs on it. He shifted one by the bedside. There was a small dark stain on the floor still not dry. An exclamation from Gordon made him turn. Gordon had the safe open, and the safe, but for some papers in disorder, was empty.
"Not one bally bangle left!" Gordon cried. "Not a sparkle of the whole outfit! Remember that ruby and diamond breastplate! Remember her pearls! And the stuff that Indian Johnny gave her! My hat! Somebody's had a haul." A spasm crossed his face. "I say, doctor, you were here when I opened the safe!"
"I was here," Reggie said stolidly. "I wasn't surprised." The little Jew gasped. "You remem-
