side of the iron-studded panels. The door creaked, groaned, as if it were a live thing in pain; then it swung slowly back, and he saw standing on the threshold of a cavernous entrance hall a girl who, from her general appearance and attire, was no country maiden but a smart young lady from London. She was a tall, pretty girl, probably eighteen or nineteen years of age, very much out of harmony with her surroundings, and she stared wide-eyed at the detective as if he had fallen from the clouds. But she spoke before he could.
"They never open this door!" she said, smiling. "I just happened to hear———"
"Sorry to give so much trouble," Wedgwood hastened to say. "Is the master at home?"
The girl retreated into the hall, and at the foot of a wide staircase raised her voice.
"Aunt Janet!" she called. "Aunt Janet! Come down—here's a gentleman———"
Before she could say more a woman came into view, emerging from an open doorway half-way up the stair. She was a tall, gaunt woman, full of angles; elderly, and probably grey-haired, but of her hair Wedgwood, keenly observant of her as of everything about him, could see nothing; for her head, from just above the level of her eyebrows to the nape of her neck was tied up tightly in a bright yellow and
