ing terror and he slipped from the policeman's hold and fell, rather than seated himself, in a chair.
"Who is it that is speaking?" asked Trant in the same steady tone.
"Isabella Clarke," the voice was clearer, but high-pitched and entirely different from Iris's. The psychologist started with surprise.
"How old is Isabella?" he asked after a moment.
"She is young—a little girl—a child!" the voice was stronger still.
"Does Isabella know of Iris Pierce?"
"Yes."
"Can she see Iris last Wednesday afternoon at three o'clock?"
"Yes."
"What is she doing?"
"She is in the library. She went upstairs to take a nap, but she could not sleep and came down to get a book."
A long cry from some distant part of the house—a shriek which set vibrating the tense nerves of all in the little study—suddenly startled them. Trant turned sharply toward the door; the others, petrified in their places, followed the direction of his look. Through the open door of the study and the arched opening of the anteroom, the foot of the main stairs was discernible; and, painfully and excitedly descending them, was a white-haired woman leaning on a cane and on the other side supported by the trembling negress.
"Richard, Richard!" she screamed, "that woman is in the house—in the study! I heard her voice—
