see the electric connections.  Question was, where was the bell?  But I had something to think of first.  Where would Mrs. Markham have a cabinet if she ever done materializin’?  I had thought that all out—­a little alcove library in the rear of the back parlor.  Give you plenty of room, when the folding doors were open, for lights and effects.  If there was a ceiling trap, it must be in the rooms above.  I went into—­into the rooms”—­here Rosalie paused an infinitesimal second as though making a mental shift—­“into the room above.  Just over the alcove library is a small sittin’-room.  The—­a bedroom opens off it—­but has nothing to do with the case.  It’s one of those new-fangled bare floor rooms.  Right over the cabinet space was a big rug.  I pulled it aside and pried around with a hair pin until I found a loose nail.”

[Illustration:  “I WAS LOOKING STRAIGHT DOWN ON THE BACK PARLORS”]

Rosalie paused for breath before she resumed: 

“I went over the house again to be sure I was alone, before I pulled out the nail.  Well, sir, what happened like to knocked me over.  The minute that nail come out, a trap rose right up—­on springs.  I just caught it in time to stop it from making a racket.  I was looking straight down on the back parlors.  It’s one of those flossy, ornamented ceilings down there, and a panel of those ceiling ornaments came up with the bottom of the trap.  But that wasn’t the funny thing about that trap, nice piece of work as it was.  It’s a regular cupboard.  Double, you understand.  Space in between—­and all the fixings for a materializin’ seance, the straight fixings that the dope sees and the crooked ones that only the medium and the spook sees, tucked inside.  A shutter lamp, blue glass—­a set of gauze robes, phosphorescent stars and crescents, a little rope ladder all curled up—­and whole books of notes.  Right on top was”—­she paused impressively to get suspense for her climax—­“was them notes on yellow foolscap that I seen in the hands of the visitor last week.  And”—­another impressive pause—­“they’re the dope for Robert H. Norcross!”

“The what?”

“The full information on him—­dead sweetheart, passed out thirty years ago up-state.  Fine job with good little details—­whoever got ’em must ‘a’ talked with somebody that was right close to her—­an old aunt, I’m thinking.  But no medium made them notes.  Looks like a private detective’s work.  Not a bit of professional talk.  The notes on Robert H. Norcross.  See!”

Dr. Blake, whose face had lightened more and more as he listened, jumped up and grasped Rosalie’s hand.

“Didn’t I tell you!” he cried.  “Didn’t I tell you!”

But she failed to respond to his enthusiasm.  She turned on him a grave face; and her eyes shone.

“What I’m wondering,” she said, “is who plays her spook?  ’Cause if she has a trap, she uses confederates, and it can’t be none of the servants, unless I’m worse fooled on that little Ellen than ever I was on Mrs. Markham.  That’s the next thing to consider.”