And still the riddle haunted him: Why had she come back that night? And,
whatever her reason, had she come in Anisty's company, or alone? One
minute it seemed patent beyond dispute that the girl and the great
plunderer were hand-in-glove; the next minute Maitland was positively
assured that their recent meeting had been altogether an accident. From
what he had heard over the telephone, he had believed them to be
quarreling, although at the time he had assigned to O'Hagan the masculine
side to the dispute. But certainly there must have arisen some difference
of opinion between Anisty and the girl, to have drawn from her that
frantic negative Maitland had heard, to have been responsible for the
overturning of the chair,--an accident that seemed to argue something in
the nature of a physical struggle; the chair itself still lay upon its
side, mute witness to a hasty and careless movement on somebody's part....
But it was all inexplicable. Eventually Maitland shook his head, to
signify that he gave it up. There was but one thing to do,--to put it out
of mind. He would read a bit, compose himself, go to bed.
Preliminary to doing so, he would take steps to insure the flat against
further burglarizing, for that night, at least. The draught moving through
the hall stirred the portiere and reminded him that the window in the
trunk-room was still open, an invitation to any enterprising sneak-thief
or second-story man. So Maitland went to close and make it fast.
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