Within a day or two Christopher was once more reminded of the diamond robbery by having Corrigan call up the firm and announce that Stuart, wanted in Chicago for the rifling of a safe, had been taken west under guard.

"As yet," concluded the inspector, "we have made no progress toward the recovery of the ring. It has neither put in its appearance at any of the pawnshops nor have we been able to trace the stones. We do not, however, despair of getting some clew and shall still keep on the lookout."

"I suppose you have no track of Tony—Stuart's accomplice, either?" inquired Mr. Burton over the wire.

"None, I am sorry to say."

With a sigh of discouragement the senior partner hung up the receiver.

"I guess the incident is as good as closed," remarked he. "In my opinion we can bid good-by to those diamonds and accept our burglar insurance with thankfulness that our loss was not greater."

"But Stuart's pal may show up yet, Dad," ventured the optimistic Christopher, who chanced at the moment to be in the office.

"I doubt it." Skeptically Mr. Burton shook his head. "More likely he has decided New York is too hot for him and has left town for pastures new."

"He may be lying low," asserted the habitually silent Mr. Norcross.

"Possibly."

Nevertheless, despite his acquiescence, Mr. Burton returned to his letters with an air indicative that at least, so far as he was concerned, the possibility he granted was an exceedingly remote one—too remote to merit further consideration.

And indeed it did appear to be so until one day, like a meteor out of the heavens, a grimy communication postmarked Chicago was brought to Christopher, who in a fit of boredom was roaming aimlessly about the lamp department.

"I guess this is meant for you, Mr. Christopher," announced the messenger, whose duty it was to distribute the store mail. "Funny way to address it, though. You'd take it for a valentine:

"That's me all right," cried Christopher, forgetting in his excitement and curiosity such a trivial incidental as grammar.

He took the letter, regarding with amusement its disreputable appearance.

"Humph! They didn't waste very dressy stationery on me, did they?" laughed he.

"It isn't deckle-edge paper with a ducal seal, if that is what you're expecting," grinned the boy, not unwilling to air his knowledge of such matters.

As with an impish grimace he disappeared Christopher tore open the envelope he held and drew from it a single crushed manilla sheet on which was scrawled:

Twice Christopher read the letter, his eyes wide, and his throat a bit choky with emotion. To say he was surprised at the contents of the strange communication would have been to put it mildly. Not only was he astounded, he was somewhat incredulous. And yet, overmastering this disbelief was a certainty that the writer of the letter was speaking the truth. Urged on by some whim of his own, some impulse so subtle it defied analysis, Stuart was returning the property he had stolen. Perhaps remorse had overtaken him; perhaps shame; or possibly these gentler motives did but mingle with the realization that the gems, as he himself asserted, would now be useless to him. At any rate, repentant or not, here he was giving them back to their rightful owner!

What wonder the letter needed neither salutation nor signature to identify its sender? That Stuart had penned the note and contrived to find some one he could trust to mail it was obvious. And yet Christopher, fingering it, could not but speculate as to how it had struggled to freedom. Through what strange hands had it passed,—what mazes of strategy and concealment? Ah, it was futile to attempt to trace its devious trail. Here it was in his possession, and with a sudden inrush of joy, his bewildered senses stirred to action, and he hastened with his tidings to his father's office, where he burst in on Mr. Burton in the act of dictating a letter:

"Oh, Dad!" ejaculated he. "I've the biggest sort of a surprise for you. He's written me! Think of that! Written to say where it is."

"Christopher!" thundered his father. "What do you mean by dashing in here like a madman and interrupting my work? Have you forgotten this is my private office? Offer your apologies to me and to Miss Elkins and then sit down and wait until I am at leisure."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I was so excited that—"

"There, there! That will do. You don't need to tell me you are excited. Pray calm yourself and sit down quietly until I am at liberty to hear what you have to say."

"Yes, sir."

Crestfallen, the boy sank into a big leather chair in a dim corner of the room.

Mr. Burton came to a stop and leaned back in his massive mahogany chair.

"There, Miss Elkins, get that off immediately," ordered he. "Also the two cablegrams I dictated. That will be all at present. Now, Christopher, suppose you give me your mighty tidings."

A faint note of sarcasm, not lost on the boy, echoed in the words, and with enthusiasm quenched, the lad silently produced his note and laid it on his father's desk.

"What's this?" Mr. Burton asked.

"You can read it."

"A vilely dirty scrap of paper. What have you been doing with it—cleaning your shoes?"

"It was that way when it came."

"Came? Came from whom?"

"Read it and see."

"But the thing has neither beginning nor end. Was it meant for you?"

"Yes, sir. It came through the mail."

Taking the envelope from his pocket, Christopher placed it beside the letter.

Mr. Burton, however, did not heed either object.

Instead, with deliberation, he took off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on his nose. Then he lighted a fresh cigar. Even an observer less keen than his son could have detected that the major portion of his mind was still occupied by the cablegrams and dictation that had previously engaged him, and that he anticipated no very vital disclosures from the morsel of grimy paper he so gingerly took up.

Slowly he read it. Then the boy, watching, saw his figure become tense, and a flash of amazement light his eyes.

"Great Heavens!" cried he, startled out of his customary dignity. "It's from Stuart. Why didn't you say so at once?"

"I tried to tell you."

"Yes, yes. I know! But I had no idea you had anything as important as this to say. If you had only explained—"

"I was going to, only you—"

"Well, we won't stop to discuss all that now. I'll call Corrigan immediately. I don't suppose there is any chance but the note is genuine. Why, it would be a seven-days' wonder if we should get those stones back. The insurance money was no compensation for them. We could not buy three such perfectly matched diamonds had we ten times their price. Of course there is a possibility this letter may be a fake, but somehow I've a feeling it is real. We'll consult Corrigan and see what he says."

Mr. Burton reached for the telephone.

"Hello! Give me Plaza 77098.—Is Mr. Corrigan there?—Just going out?—Catch him before he leaves, and tell him, please, that Mr. Burton wishes to speak with him." A pause followed, in which Mr. Burton nervously drummed on his desk. Then he leaned forward expectantly. "Mr. Corrigan? This is Mr. Burton speaking. I've some news for you. My son has this morning received from Chicago a letter purporting to come from Stuart and giving the location of that ring.—Of course it may be—What's that?—You are on your way up to this vicinity? That will be very nice then.—Yes, eleven will suit us all right. Good-by."

"He is coming up, is he?"

"Yes. He happened to be coming, anyway. A queer thing—that letter. I hardly know what to think about it."

"Nor I."

"I certainly never heard of a thief relenting and returning his spoils."

"I'm afraid he doesn't—usually," smiled Christopher.

"Then why do it this time?" mused Burton, Senior, pondering the mystery.

"You've got me, unless, as Stuart himself explains, he is in for a long prison term and knows the diamonds won't do him any good."

"But he could leave them where they are and run the chance of finding them when he gets out. If they are well concealed it is unlikely anybody would discover them. I don't get it at all."

Scowling, Mr. Burton lapsed into a silence so forbidding that Christopher dared not interrupt it, and accordingly the two sat without speaking until Mr. Corrigan was announced.

It took not a moment to see the inspector was more than wontedly excited.

"Where is this remarkable communication?" demanded he without preliminary. "Humph! Looks as though it had been through the wars, doesn't it! A scrap of paper some convict had concealed, most likely, together with the stump of a pencil. Those fellows are pretty clever; and Stuart probably got some chap whose sentence was up to mail it when he went out. He would hardly risk sending information like this by anybody except one of his own kind. And even then he would have to be pretty certain his messenger could be trusted. It was taking a big chance. Sometimes, however, there is honor among thieves."

"Do you think the letter is genuine?" inquired Mr. Burton.

"How, genuine? That it tells the truth, you mean? Yes, I do. I think Stuart was prompted to return the ring for the very reasons he states—he took a fancy to Christopher, and he saw the diamonds would now be of no use to him."

"But he could have left them where they are."

"For a term of ten or twelve years? But think, Mr. Burton, of the changes liable to take place in that time. The building might be torn down and replaced by another, or it might be converted into a business block; or, again, fire might destroy it. In any of these cases the jewels would be lost to Stuart. Moreover, even if he tried to recover them years hence, it might be very difficult to do so. He weighed all these considerations, you may be sure, before he sent that letter. Still I am not sure they were the factors primarily influencing him. He liked Christopher and evidently wished to do him a good turn. Such men as he often have soft streaks in them—impulses for good."

"You mean to follow up the clew then?"

"Mean to follow it up? Man alive! Certainly I do. And what is more, I mean to lose no time in doing it," answered Corrigan, rising.

"I wish—" began Christopher, and then stopped.

"You wish you could go along?" asked the inspector, turning toward the lad with a friendly smile.

"That is what I was going to say—yes."

"Well, we'll take you. I think you've earned the right to be in at the finish."

"Really!" cried Christopher.

"Sure thing."

"Do you think he'd better go?" Mr. Burton queried, instantly anxious. "You hardly know what you are going to get into. It may be a trap of some sort. Suppose, as a matter of revenge, there were a bomb under the floor."

"I'm not doing any worrying on that score," responded the inspector. "Had Stuart sent the note to you or to me, I should be on my guard; but as it has come to Christopher, I have no fears. Of course, however, I shall take every precaution."

"I hope so, for the sake of every one concerned."

"Oh, I shall be careful, Mr. Burton. Don't you worry about that. I have my eye teeth cut."

"When do you mean to take up the affair?"

"This minute! As soon as I can get my men together and the necessary formalities disposed of."

"Am I to go right along with you?" Christopher leaped to his feet.

"Yes. Fetch your hat and coat. I'll take care of the boy, Mr. Burton. Have no concern about him. It is only natural he should wish to see this job through, having been mixed up in it from the first. Besides, remember we have him to thank for every clew we have succeeded in getting. It was he who witnessed the robbery; he who trapped and identified Stuart; he who now furnishes us with the whereabouts of the loot. You wouldn't deprive him of seeing the end of the drama, would you?"

"No-o," answered Mr. Burton slowly. "Still, it is no place for him. He's been mixed up with criminals and police stations ever since he came into this store. I didn't bring him here for any such purpose. Why, he has secured more knowledge of thieves and prisons during the last few weeks than he would have gathered together in a lifetime."

"He may be the wiser for it, too. Have you thought of that? Crime isn't very attractive when one sees this side of it."

"That is true," agreed Burton, Senior.

"Let Christopher alone, Mr. Burton. What he has seen won't hurt him. It has been a grim, sad adventure in which it would be hard to find one alluring feature."

"I guess that is true. Certainly evil has not triumphed."

"It never does—in the long run," declared Corrigan emphatically. "I've seen the thing over and over again, and have followed the history of most of the men we have tracked down. Sooner or later they are brought to justice. In the meantime they lead the lives of hunted foxes, never knowing a safe or peaceful moment. Some may call that happiness, but I don't. When you make of yourself an outlaw and cut yourself off from the big universe of decent people, you sentence yourself to a pretty wretched, lonely life. Even the worst of criminals often wish themselves back into that world they have left behind them, and which they know for a certainty they never can enter again."

"Stuart seemed to in his letter."

"That's exactly what I mean. Even Stuart, who has been at this sort of thing since he was a young lad, isn't contented with the lot he has chosen. Could he start over, he would follow the other path. He as good as says so himself. They are all like that when you get them at their best moments. That is why I am so sure this note to Christopher tells the truth. It is the voice of Stuart sighing for what might have been."

"Have you any idea where this street he mentions is?" interrogated Mr. Burton.

"Oh, yes. It is up in Harlem. A very decent locality. We shall have no trouble. Doubtless the people of whom he hired his room thought him a gentleman. He could ape one when he tried. Moreover, he had a good deal of the gentleman in him. Probably were we able to dig out his ancestry, we should find he came of excellent parentage. He's a gentleman gone wrong."

"It's a pity."

"It's worse than that, Mr. Burton. It is a tragedy," declared Corrigan, as he and Christopher went out.