“The hands!” he muttered.

“What hands?” Lenora asked.

“The hands that gripped Mrs. Rheinholdt by the throat,” he reminded them.  “Don’t you remember?  Hands without any arms?”

There was another brief, almost stupefied silence.  Then Laura broke into speech.

“What I want to know is,” she demanded, “who brought the thing here?”

“A most daring exploit, any way,” Quest declared.  “If we could answer your question, Laura, we could solve the whole riddle.  We are up against something, and no mistake.”

Lenora shivered a little.  The mystery of the thing terrified her, the mystery which only stimulated her two companions.

“The hand which placed that box here,” Quest continued slowly, “is capable of even more wonderful things.  We must be cautious.  Hello!”

The door had opened.  The Professor stood upon the threshold.  He carried his soft felt hat in his hand.  He bowed to the two young women courteously.

“I trust that I have done right in coming up?” he enquired.

“Quite right, Professor,” Quest assured him.  “They know well enough downstairs that I am always at liberty to you.  Come in.”

“I am so anxious to learn,” the Professor continued eagerly, “whether there is any news—­of my skeleton.”

“Not yet, Professor, I am sorry to say,” Quest replied.  “Come in and shut the door.”

The Professor was obviously struggling with his disappointment.  He did not, however, at once close the door.

“There is a young lady here,” he said, “who caught me up upon the landing.  She, too, I believe, wishes to see you.  My manners suffered, I fear, from my eagerness to hear from your own lips if there was anything fresh.  I should have allowed her to precede me.”

He threw open the door and stood on one side.  A young woman came a little hesitatingly into the room.  Her hair was plainly brushed back, and she wore the severe dress of the Salvation Army.  Nothing, however, could conceal the fact that she was a remarkably sweet and attractive-looking young person.

“Want to see me, young lady?” Quest asked.

She held out a book.

“My name is Miss Quigg,” she said.  “I want to ask you for a subscription to our funds.”

Quest frowned a little.

“I don’t care about this house-to-house visitation,” he remarked.

“It is only once a year that we come,” the girl pleaded, “and we only go to people who we know can afford to help us, and who we believe can appreciate our work.  You know so much of the darker side of New York, Mr. Quest.  Wherever you go you must find signs of our labours.  Even if I put on one side, for a moment, the bare religious question, think how much we do for the good and the welfare of the poor people.”

Quest nodded.

“That’s all right,” he admitted.  “You reach the outcasts all right.  There’s many a one you save whom you had better leave to die, but here and there, no doubt, you set one of them on their legs again who’s had bad luck.  Very well, Miss Quigg.  You shall have a donation.  I am busy to-day, but call at the same hour to-morrow and my secretary here shall have a cheque ready for you.”