tus and Warfield and Barrymore; she told dramatic little stories; she discussed the psychology of audiences, the technique of the drama, and the very metaphysics of acting. I never heard such talk in my life; but—" He closed his eyes and smiled.
"Ah, but!" said Astro. "There was something else, then?"
"I should say so! After she had left, I went into my study, and found that it had been visited by burglars."
Astro betrayed no surprise; but his brows bent into a new tense curve. He leaned forward and looked at Pinkard intently. "And what was missing? Wait!" He suddenly raised a warning finger. "Don't tell me! I'll get it, perhaps—I have a feeling." He dropped his head into his hands for a few moments, then looked at Pinkard through half-shut eyes. "Not the manuscript of your new book?"
Pinkard slapped his hand on his knee. "By Jove! you've got it! See here, you'll have to take this on!"
"Anything else gone?"
"Nothing. I had a little safe in the wall, but it was untouched."
"A very pretty game, indeed."
"Wasn't it slick? Of course, she held me there while they worked it. I can't imagine how they ever got in, though. The back door shows no sign of having been forced, it was bolted on the inside. No fire-escapes available. It's a small apartment-house, and rather old-fashioned. But why any one should want that manuscript, I don't know."
"You have no other copy?"
"No, I wrote it on the typewriter myself, and was
