"Why didn't you say it was you, sir?" exclaimed that crestfallen
individual, as the flashing light made manifest his mistake. "When I
heard you first, and see you come up out of that back passage, I made
sure it was him; and if you'd a struggled, I'd have bashed your head as
sure as eggs."

"Thank you for nothing," he responded testily. "You might have
remembered, however, that the man's first got to get into the place
before he can come downstairs. Mr. Narkom," turning to the
superintendent, "I was just getting into bed when I thought of something
I'd neglected to tell you; and as my niece is sitting in her room with
the door open, and I wasn't anxious to parade myself before her in my
night clothes, I came down by the back staircase. I don't know how in
the world I came to overlook it, but I think you ought to know that
there's a way of getting into the picture gallery without using either
the windows or the stairs, and that way ought to be both searched and
guarded."

"Where is it? What is it? Why in the world didn't you tell me in the
first place?" exclaimed Narkom irritably, as he glanced round the place
searchingly. "Is it a panel? a secret door? or what? This is an old
house, and old houses are sometimes a very nest of such things."

"Happily, this one isn't. It's a modern innovation, not an ancient
relic, that offers the means of entrance in this case. A Yankee occupied
this house before I bought it from him--one of those blessed shivery
individuals his country breeds, who can't stand a breath of cold air
indoors after the passing of the autumn. The wretched man put one of
those wretched American inflictions, a hot-air furnace, in the cellar,
with huge pipes running to every room in the house--great tin