Guy Morrow, after a sleepless night, presented himself at Henry Blaine’s office the next morning. The great detective, observing his young subordinate with shrewd, kindly eyes, noted in one swift glance his changed demeanor: his pallor, and the new lines graven about the firm mouth, which added strength and maturity to his face. If he guessed the reason for the metamorphosis, Blaine gave no sign, but listened without comment until Morrow had completed his report.

“You obeyed my instructions?” he asked at length. “When you discovered the forgery outfit in the cellar of Brunell’s shop, you left everything just as it had been––left no possible trace of your presence?”

“Yes, sir. There’s not a sign left to show any one had disturbed the place. I am sure of that.”

“Not a foot-print in the earth of the cellar steps?”

“No, sir.”

“And the outfit––was there any evidence it had been used lately?”

“No––everything was dust-covered, and even rusty, as if it had not even been touched in months, perhaps years. The whole thing might be merely a relic of Jimmy Brunell’s past performances, in the life he gave up long ago.”

Morrow spoke almost eagerly, as if momentarily off his guard, but Blaine shook his head.

“Rather too dangerous a relic to keep in one’s possession, Guy, simply as a souvenir––a reminder of things the man is trying to forget, to live down. You can depend on it: the outfit was there for some more practical purpose. You say Paddington has not appeared in the neighborhood, but another man has––a man Brunell’s daughter seems to dislike and fear?”

“Yes, sir. There’s one significant fact about him, too––his name. He’s Charley Pennold. It didn’t occur to me for some time after Miss Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I traced Brunell by.”

“Charley Pennold!” Blaine repeated thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of him. He’s old Walter Pennold’s nephew. The boy was running straight the last I heard of him, but you never can tell. Guy, I’m going to take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man Paddington. I’ll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself.”

“You’re going to take me off the Brunell trail!” Morrow’s astonishment and obvious distaste for the change of program confronting him was all-revealing. “But I’ll have to go back and make some sort of explanation for leaving so abruptly, won’t I? Will it pay to arouse their suspicions––that is, sir, unless you’ve got some special reason for doing so?”

Blaine’s slow smile was very kindly and sympathetic as he eyed the anxious young man before him.

“No. You will go back, of course, and explain that 106 you have obtained a clerkship which necessitates your moving downtown. Make your peace with Miss Brunell if you like, but remember, Guy, don’t mix sentiment and business. It won’t do. I may have to put you back on the job there in a few days, and I know I can depend on you not to lose your head. She’s a young girl and a pretty one; but don’t forget she’s the daughter of Jimmy Brunell, the man we’re trying to get! Pennington Lawton had a daughter, too; remember that––and she’s been defrauded of everything in the world but her lover and her faith in her father’s memory.” His voice had gradually grown deeper and more stern, and he added in brisk, businesslike tones, far removed from the personal element. “Now get back to the Bronx. Come to me to-morrow morning, and I’ll have the data in the Paddington matter ready for you.”

The young detective had scarcely taken his departure, when Ramon Hamilton appeared. He was in some excitement, and glanced nervously behind him as he entered, as if almost in fear of possible pursuit.

“Mr. Blaine,” he began, “I’m confident that we’re suspected. Here’s a note that came to me from President Mallowe this morning. He asks if I inadvertently carried away with me that letter of Pennington Lawton’s written from Long Bay two years ago, in which I had shown such an interest during our interview the other day. He has been unable to find it since my departure. That’s a rather broad hint, it seems to me.”

“I should not consider it as such,” the detective responded. “Guilty conscience, Mr. Hamilton!”

“That’s not all!” the young lawyer went on. “He says that a curious burglary was committed at his offices the night after my interview with him––his watchman was chloroformed, and the safe in his private office 107 opened and rifled, yet nothing was taken, with the possible exception of that letter. Mallowe asks me, openly, if I knew of an ulterior motive which any one might have possessed in acquiring it, and even remarks that he is thinking of putting you, Mr. Blaine, on the mysterious attempt at robbery. That would be a joke, wouldn’t it, if it wasn’t really, in my estimation at least, a covert threat. Why should he, Mallowe, take me into his confidence about an affair which took place in his private office? He did not make the excuse of pretending to retain me as his attorney. I think he was merely warning me that he was suspicious of me.”

“Probably a mere coincidence,” Blaine observed easily.

“I wonder if you’ll think so when I tell you that twice since yesterday my life has been attempted.” Ramon spoke quietly enough, but there was a slight trembling in his tones.

“What!” Blaine started forward in his chair, then sank back with an incredulous smile, which none but he could have known was forced. “Surely you imagine it, Mr. Hamilton. Since your automobile accident, when you were run down and so nearly killed on the evening you sent for me to undertake Miss Lawton’s case, you may well be nervous.”

As he spoke he glanced at the other’s broken arm, which was still swathed in bandages.

“But these were no accidents, Mr. Blaine, and I have always doubted that the first one was, as you know. Yesterday afternoon, a new client’s case called me down to the sixth ward, at four o’clock. In order to reach my client’s address it was necessary to pass through the street in which that shooting affray occurred which filled the papers last evening. Two men darted out of a 108 house, shot presumably at each other, then turned and ran in opposite directions without waiting to see if either of the shots took effect. You know that isn’t usual with the members of rival gangs down there. Remember, too, Mr. Blaine, that it was prearranged for me to walk alone through that street at just that psychological moment. It seemed to me that neither man shot at the other, but both fired point-blank at me. I dismissed the idea from my mind as absurd, the next minute, and would have thought no more about it, beyond congratulating myself on my fortunate escape, had not the second attempt been made.”

“The sixth ward––” Blaine remarked, meditatively. “That’s Timothy Carlis’ stamping ground, of course. But go on, Mr. Hamilton. What was the second incident?”

“Late last night, I had a telephone message from my club that my best friend, Gordon Brooke, had been taken suddenly ill with a serious attack of heart-trouble, and wanted me. Brooke has heart-disease and he might go off with it at any time, so I posted over immediately. The club is only a few blocks away from my home, so I didn’t wait to call my machine or a taxi, but started over. Just a little way from the club, three men sprang upon me and attempted to hold me up. I fought them off, and when they came at me again, three to one, the idea flashed upon me that this was a fresh attempt to assassinate me.

“I shouted for help, and then ran. When I reached the club I found Brooke there, sitting in a poker game and quite as well as usual. No telephone message had been sent to me from him. I tried this morning, before I came to you, to have the number traced, but without success. Do you blame me now, Mr. Blaine, for believing, 109 after these three manifestations, that my life is in actual danger?”

“I do not.” The detective touched an electric button on his desk. “I think it will be advisable for you to have a guard, for the next few days, at least.”

“A guard!” Ramon repeated, indignantly. “I’m not a coward. Any man would be disturbed, to put it mildly, over the conviction that his life was threatened every hour, but it was of her I was thinking––of Anita! I could not bear to think of leaving her alone to face the world, penniless and hedged in on all sides by enemies. But I want no guard! I can take care of myself as well as the next man. Look at the perils and dangers you have faced in your unceasing warfare against malefactors of every grade. It is common knowledge that you have invariably refused to be guarded.”

“The years during which I have been constantly face to face with sudden death have made me disregard the possibility of it. But I shall not insist in your case, Mr. Hamilton, if you do not wish it; and allow me to tell you that I admire your spirit. However, I should like to have you leave town for a few days, if your clients can spare you.”

“Leave town? Run away?” Ramon started indignantly from his chair, but Blaine waved him back with a fatherly hand.

“Not at all. On a commission for me, in Miss Lawton’s interests. Mr. Hamilton, you have known the Lawtons for several years, have you not?”

“Ever since I can remember,” the young lawyer said with renewed eagerness.

“Two years ago, in August, Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at ‘The Breakers,’ at Long Bay, were they not?”

“Yes. Anita and I were engaged then, and I ran out myself for the week-end.”

“I want you to run out there for me now. The hotel will be closed at this time of year, of course, but a letter which I will give you to the proprietor, who lives close at hand, will enable you to look over the register for an hour or two in private. Turn to the arrivals for August of that year, and trace the names and home addresses on each page; then bring it back to me.”

“Is it something in connection with that forged letter to Mallowe?” asked Ramon quickly.

“Perhaps,” the detective admitted. He shrugged, then added leniently, “I think, before proceeding any further with that branch of the investigation, it would be well to know who obtained the notepaper with the hotel letterhead, and if the paper itself was genuine. Bring me back some of the hotel stationery, also, that I may compare it with that used for the letter.”

A discreet knock upon the door heralded the coming of an operative, in response to Blaine’s touch upon the bell.

“There has been a slight disturbance in the outer office, sir,” he announced. “A man, who appears to be demented, insists upon seeing you. He isn’t one of the ordinary cranks, or we would have dealt with him ourselves. He says that if you will read this, you will be glad to assent to an interview with him.”

He presented a card, which Blaine read with every manifestation of surprised interest.

“Tell him I will see him in five minutes,” he said. When the operative had withdrawn, the detective turned to Ramon.

“Who do you think is waiting outside? The man who threatened Pennington Lawton’s life ten years ago, 111 the man whose name was mentioned by the unknown visitor to the library on the night Lawton met his death: Herbert Armstrong!”

“Good heavens!” Ramon exclaimed. “What brings him here now? I thought he had disappeared utterly. Do you think it could have been he in the library that night, come to take revenge for that fancied wrong, at last?”

“That is what I’m going to find out,” the detective responded, with a touch of grimness in his tones.

“But you don’t mean––it isn’t possible that Mr. Lawton was murdered! That he didn’t die of heart-disease, after all!”

“I traced Armstrong to the town where he was living in obscurity, and followed his movements.” Blaine’s reply seemed to be purposely irrelevant. “I could not, however, find where he had been on the night of Mr. Lawton’s death. Now that he has come to me voluntarily, we shall discover if the voice Miss Lawton overheard in that moment when she listened on the stairs, was his or not.... Come back this afternoon, Mr. Hamilton, and I will give you full information and instructions about that Long Bay errand. In the meantime, guard yourself well from a possible attack, although I do not think another attempt upon your life will be made so soon. Take this, and if you have need of it, do not hesitate to use it. We can afford no half-measures now. Shoot, and shoot to kill!”

He opened a lower drawer in his massive desk and, drawing from it a business-like looking revolver of large caliber, presented it to the lawyer. With a warm hand-clasp he dismissed him, and, going to the telephone, called up Anita Lawton’s home.

“I want you to attend carefully, Miss Lawton. I 112 am speaking from my office. A man will be here with me in a few minutes, and I shall seat him close to the transmitter of my ’phone, leaving the receiver off the hook. Please listen carefully to his voice. I only wish you to hear a phrase or two, when I will hang up the receiver, and call you up later. Try to concentrate with all your powers, and tell me afterward if you have ever heard that voice until now; if it is the voice of the man you did not see, who was in the library with your father just before he died.”

He heard her give a quick gasp, and then her voice came to him, low and sweet and steady.

“I will listen carefully, Mr. Blaine, and do my best to tell you the truth.”

The detective pulled a large leather chair close to the telephone, and Herbert Armstrong was ushered in.

The man was pitiful in appearance, but scarcely demented, as the operative had described him. He was tall and shabbily clothed, gaunt almost to the point of emaciation, but with no sign of dissipation. His eyes, though sunken, were clear, and they gazed levelly with those of the detective.

“Come in, Mr. Armstrong.” Blaine waved genially toward the arm-chair. “What can I do for you?”

The man did not offer to shake hands, but sank wearily into the chair assigned him.

“Do? You can stop hounding me, Henry Blaine! You and Pennington Lawton brought my tragedy upon me as surely as I brought it upon myself, and now you will not leave me alone with my grief and ruin, to drag my miserable life out to the end, but you or your men must dog my every foot-step, spy upon me, hunt me down like a pack of wolves! And why? Why?”

The man’s voice had run its gamut, in the emotion 113 which consumed him, and from a menacing growl of protest, it had risen to a shrill wail of weakness and despair.

Henry Blaine was satisfied.

“Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong,” he said gently. “The receiver is off my telephone, here at your elbow. It would be unfortunate if we were overheard. If you will allow me––”

But he got no further. Quick as he was, the other man was quicker. He sprang up furiously, and dashed the telephone off the desk.

“Is this another of your d––d tricks?” he shouted. “If it is, whoever was listening may hear the rest. You and Pennington Lawton between you, drove my wife to suicide, but you’ll not drive me there! I’m ruined, and broken, and hopeless, but I’ll live on, live till I’m even, do you hear? Live till I’m square with the game!”

His violence died out as swiftly as it had arisen, and he sank down in the chair, his face buried in his bony hands, his thin shoulders shaken with sobs.

Blaine quietly replaced the telephone and receiver, and seated himself.

“Come, man, pull yourself together!” he said, not unkindly. “I’m not hounding you; Lawton never harmed you, and now he is dead. He was my client and I was bound to protect his interests, but as man to man, the fault was yours and you know it. I tried to keep you from making a fool of yourself and wrecking three lives, but I only succeeded in saving one.”

“But your men are hounding me, following me, shadowing me! I have come to find out why!”

“And I would like to find out where you were on a certain night last month––the ninth, to be exact,” responded Blaine quietly.

“What affair is it of yours?” the other man asked 114 wearily, adding: “How should I know, now? One night is like another, to me.”

“If you hate Pennington Lawton’s memory as you seem to, the ninth of November should stand out in your thoughts in letters of fire,” the detective went on, in even, quiet tone. “That was the night on which Lawton died.”

“Lawton?” Herbert Armstrong raised his haggard face. The meaning of Blaine’s remark utterly failed to pierce his consciousness. “The date doesn’t mean anything to me, but I remember the night, if that’s what you want to know about, although I’m hanged if I can see what it’s got to do with me! I’ll never forget that night, because of the news which reached me in the morning, that my worst enemy on earth had passed away.”

“Were you in Illington the evening before?” asked Blaine.

“I was not. I was in New Harbor, where I live, playing pinochle all night long with two other down-and-outs like myself, in a cheap hall bed-room––I, Herbert Armstrong, who used to play for thousands a game, in the best clubs in Illington! And I never knew that the man who had brought me to that pass was gasping his life away! Think of it! We played until dawn, when the extras, cried in the street below, gave us the news!”

“If you will give me the address of this boarding-house you mention, and the names of your two friends, I can promise that you will be under no further espionage, Mr. Armstrong.”

“I don’t care whether you know it or not, if that’s all you want!” The gaunt man shrugged wearily. “I’m 115 tired of being hounded, and I’m too weak and too tired to oppose you, even if it did matter.”

He gave the required names and addresses, and slouched away, his animosity gone, and only a dull, miserable lethargy sagging upon his worn body.

When the outer door of the offices had closed upon him, Henry Blaine again called up Anita Lawton. This time her voice came to him sharpened by acute distress.

“I did not recognize the tones of the person’s voice, Mr. Blaine, only I am quite, quite sure that he was not the man in the library with my father the night of his death. But oh, what did he mean by the terrible things he said? It could not be that my father brought ruin and tragedy upon any one, much less drove them to suicide. Won’t you tell me, Mr. Blaine? Ramon won’t, although I am convinced he knows all about it. I must know.”

“You shall, Miss Lawton. I think the time has come when you should no longer be left in the dark. I will tell Mr. Hamilton when he comes to me this afternoon for the interview we have arranged that you must know the whole story.”

But Ramon Hamilton failed to appear for the promised interview. Henry Blaine called up his office and his home, but was unable to locate him. Then Miss Lawton began making anxious inquiries, and finally the mother of the young lawyer appealed to the detective, but in vain. Late that night the truth was established beyond peradventure of a doubt. Ramon Hamilton had disappeared as if the earth had opened and engulfed him.