Things were not going Mr. Larkin's way. What had begun with such bright promise was declining to a twilight uncertainty. The morning after his ignominious failure with Willitts he had a letter from Suzanne, forwarded from his New York office, telling him that she would be in town on the following Monday and would like to see him. The letter disturbed him greatly. It was not alone that he had nothing to report; it was that the tone of the missive was irritated and impatient. It was the angrily imperious summons of a lady who is disappointed in her hireling.

He packed up his things and left Cedar Brook—the collapse of his endeavor there was complete—and at the hour appointed found Suzanne waiting in the shaded reception room. Her words and manner showed him how disagreeable a fine lady can be; they gave him a cold premonition that his fat salary would end unless something distinct and definite was soon forthcoming. In fact she hinted it; his assurances that interesting developments were pending, that this sort of work was necessarily slow, kindled no responsive enthusiasm in the crossly accusing eye she fastened on him. His manner became almost pleading; he was on the edge of discoveries, unquestionably he would have something to tell her by the end of the week. At that she hung dubious, the angry eye less disconcerting, and said she would be in town on Friday as she was going to take her little girl to the oculist.

Mr. Larkin hailed the announcement with a sleuth-like eagerness, but, as if anxious to quench any little flicker of his spirit, she added blightingly that she didn't think it would be possible to see him as the child would be with her. He grappled with the difficulty, displaying both patience and resourcefulness, for Mrs. Price, in a bad temper, had a talent for creating obstacles.

Why, he suggested, couldn't the little girl go to the oculist with her nurse or companion and Mrs. Price be left, so to speak, free to roam? Mrs. Price's answer snapped with an angry click—that was of course what she would do—she always did. But, Mr. Larkin did not suppose she took the exhausting trip from Berkeley for nothing, did he? She had matters to attend to herself, shops to go to, people to see; when they came into town they were swamped, simply swamped, by what they had to do. She depicted with a lively irritation their harried progress, the party split into halves, one in a hired vehicle, one in the family motor, passing through the marts of trade in a stampede of breathless shopping. She rubbed it in, seemed to be intimating that he was attempting to frustrate an overtaxed and weary woman in the accomplishment of gigantic tasks.

Mr. Larkin met the difficulties and kept his patience. It took a good deal to finally reach a settlement which was obvious from the start. The child and her companion could go on their errands and Suzanne could go on hers, but be back before them. He could meet her at the house at any hour she named and would leave before the return of the other half of the party. He forced her to an admission that the plan was feasible, though she gave it grudgingly, her manner still suggesting that if he had conducted himself as a detective worthy of his hire she would not have been put to so much trouble. She arranged to be at the house at twelve which she calculated might give her half an hour alone with him. Should there be any change of plans she would let him know, and she hoped, with an accentuated glance, he would have something satisfactory to tell her.

His good temper unshaken, Mr. Larkin assured her he would and rose to go. On the doorstep he mopped his forehead though the day was not warm, also he swore softly as he descended the steps.

A day or two after this, Chapman Price went to the Whitney office. He had received a communication from them asking for an interview, the ostensible subject of debate being Suzanne's divorce. The suit would be conducted at Reno where Mrs. Price would go in the autumn, but the Whitneys, as the Janney lawyers, wanted to talk the matter over with Mr. Price for the arranging of various financial details.

These were quickly opened up for his attention by Wilbur Whitney, who, with George, saw the young man in his private office. The ground of divorce—non-support—was touched on with a tactful lightness. Mrs. Price would of course ask for no alimony and so forth and so on. From that the elder Whitney passed to the subject of the child; it was the desire of its mother and grandparents that Chapman should relinquish all claim on it. The young man listened, gloomy and scowling, now and then muttering in angry repudiation. But the diplomatic arguments of the lawyer bore down his opposition; he had to give in. The child ought to remain with its mother, the natural guardian of its tender years; left entirely to the Janneys it would be the eventual heiress of their great wealth, but if Chapman antagonized them by a fight for its possession its prospects might suffer. It was a persuasive appeal, made to Chapman's parental affections, the welfare of his daughter before his own. It brought him to a sullen consent, and Wilbur Whitney, with a sound of approval, pushed back his chair, elated as by a good work done.

Price rose, his face flushed and frowning. That he was resentful was plain to be seen, but he had himself in hand, inquiring with a sardonic politeness if that was all they wanted of him. The elder Whitney with a hospitable gesture toward the empty chair, said no, there were some questions he'd like to ask, nothing of any especial moment and on an entirely different matter.

"Mrs. Janney," he explained, "has suggested that we make a separate, private investigation of the robbery. She's lost faith in Kissam, who hasn't done anything but draw his pay envelope and wants us to see what we can do. So we've been clearing up a lot of dead wood, looking into the movements of the people in the house and the neighborhood that night."

Price, who had remained standing, turned his eyes on the speaker in a gaze that had a quality of sudden fixed attention.

"Oh," he said, in a tone containing a note of hostile comprehension, "so you're in it, are you?"

"Yes; we're in it—only a little way so far. We've been rounding up every one that has, or has had, any dealings with the family and we've taken you in in the sweep."

"Me?" Price's voice showed an intense surprise. "What have I got to do with it?"

"Nothing, my dear boy, except that you were a member of the household, and as I said, we're clearing up every one in sight. It's only a formality, a tagging and disposing of all unnecessary elements. You went for a motor ride that night—a long ride. You wouldn't mind telling us where, would you? It's just for the purpose of eliminating you along with the rest of the dead wood."

The young man's gaze dropped from Whitney's face to his own hat lying on the table. He looked at it with an absent stare.

"A motor ride?" he murmured.

"Yes, from eight-thirty till nearly two."

"Um," Price appeared to be considering. "Let me see—what was the date, I don't remember?"

George assisted his memory:

"July the seventh—a moonlight night."

"Ah," he had it now, nodding his head several times in restored recollection. "Of course, I remember perfectly. There was a heavy rain early in the evening and then a full moon." He turned to the elder man. "I'm rather fond of ranging about at night, and couldn't quite place what especial ride you referred to. I took a long spin up the Island."

"Up?" said Whitney, "not being a Long Islander I don't know your directions. Would 'up' mean toward the city?"

"No, the other way, out along the Sound roads and on toward Peconic."

"Kept to the country, eh? Too fine a night to waste in town."

Price's face darkened. George watching him noticed a slight dilation of his nostrils, a slight squaring of the line of his jaw. His answer came in a tone hard and combative:

"Exactly. I get enough of town in the day. I rode, as I told you, out to the east, a long way—I can't give you the exact route if that's what you want." He suddenly leaned forward and snatched his hat from the table. Holding it against his side he made an ironical bow to his questioner said, "Does that eliminate me as a suspect?"

Whitney laughed, a sound of lazy good humor rich with the tolerance of a vast experience:

"My dear Chapman, why use such sensational terms? Suspect is a word we haven't reached yet. Take this as it's meant—a form, merely a form."

"The form might have included a questioning of me before you took the trouble to look up what I did. Evidently my word wasn't thought sufficient."

His glance, darkly threatening, moved from one man to the other. George started to protest, but he cut in, his words directed at old Whitney:

"It's all I have to offer you now. It's what I say against what you've been told to believe. I can prove no alibi, for I was with no one, saw no one, started alone and stayed alone. That's all you'll get out of me, and you can take it or leave it as you d——n please."

He turned and walked toward the door, the elder Whitney's conciliatory phrases delivered to his back. The door knob in his hand he wheeled round, the anger he had been struggling to subdue fierce in his face:

"Don't think for a moment you've fooled me. I was ignorant when I came in here, but I'm on to the whole dirty business now. I see through this pussy-footing round the divorce. It's the Janneys—the blow in the back I might have known was coming. They've got my child, set you on to wheedle her out of me. But that wasn't enough—they're going to try and finish the good work—put me out of business so there's no more trouble coming from me. Brand me as a thief—that's their game, is it? Well—they've gone too far. I've held my hand up to this but now I'll let loose. They'll see! By God, they'll see that I can hit back blow for blow."