each separate glyph forming a whimsical square cartouche.
But the quick glance of the psychologist passed all these almost without noting, and centered itself upon an object in the middle of the room. On a low pedestal stood one of the familiar Central American stones of sacrifice, with grooved channels to carry away the blood, and rounded top designed to bend backward the body of the human victim while the priest, with one quick cut, slew him; and before it, staring at this stone, as though no continuance of familiarity could make her unaffected by it, stood the slender, graceful, dark-haired, dark-skinned girl of whom the psychologist had caught just a glimpse through the door of the morning room when he entered.
"My ward, Miss Pierce, Mr. Trant," Pierce introduced them as she turned. "Mr. Trant is here to make an investigation into the loss of my papers, Iris."
"Oh!" said the girl, without interest, "then I'll not interrupt you. I was only looking for Ulame. Mr. Trant," she smiled brightly at the psychologist, "don't you think this room is beautiful in the morning sunlight?"
"Come, Trant," Pierce passed his hand across his forehead, as he gazed at the girl's passionless face, "the study is at the other end of the museum." But the psychologist, with his gray eyes narrowing with interest, his red hair rumpled by an energetic gesture, stood an instant observing her; and she flushed deeply.
"I know why it is you look at me in that way,
