Morrow, meanwhile, had slowly become aware that he had a problem of his own to face, the biggest of his life. Should he go on with his work? In the event that James Brunell proved, indeed, to be guilty of the forgeries of which he was suspected by the Master Mind, it would mean that he, Morrow, would have betrayed the father of the girl he felt himself beginning to care for. Dared he face such a tremendous issue?

His acquaintance with Emily Brunell had progressed rapidly in the few days since his subterfuge had permitted him to speak to her. He had met her father and found himself liking the tall, silent man who went about the simple affairs of his life with such compelling dignity and courteous aloofness. Brunell had even invited him to his little shop and shown him with unsuspecting enthusiasm his process for making the maps which were sold to the public schools.

Morrow had seen no evidence of anything wrong, either in the little shop or the home life of the father and daughter; nor had he observed Paddington––who was well known to him––in the neighborhood.

Even in these few mornings it had become a habit with him to watch for Emily and walk with her to her subway station, and as frequently as he dared, he would await her arrival in the evening. After his last telephone conversation with Blaine, he called upon the two in the 99 little house across the way, determined to find out, if possible, if the man Paddington had come into their lives. He felt instinctively that James Brunell would prove a difficult subject to cross-examine. The man seemed to be complete master of himself, and were he guilty, could never be led into an admission, unless some influence more powerful than force could be brought to bear upon him.

But the girl, with her clear eyes and unsuspecting, inexperienced mind, could easily be led to disclose whatever knowledge she possessed, particularly if her interest or affections were aroused. It seemed cowardly, in view of his newly awakened feelings toward her, but he had committed far more unscrupulous acts without a qualm, in the course of his professional work.

Brunell was out when he called, but Emily led him into the little sitting-room, and for a time they talked in a desultory fashion. Morrow, who had brought so many malefactors to justice by the winning snare of his personality, felt for once at a loss as to how to commence his questioning.

But the girl herself, guilelessly, gave him a lead by beginning, quite of her own accord, to talk of her early life.

“It seems so strange,” she remarked, confidingly, “to have been so completely alone all of my life––except for Daddy, of course.”

“You have no brothers or sisters, Miss Brunell?” asked the detective.

“None––and I never knew my mother. She died when I was born.”

Morrow sighed, and involuntarily his hand reached forward in an expression of complete sympathy.

“Daddy has been mother and father to me,” the girl 100 went on impulsively. “We have always lived in this neighborhood, ever since I can remember, and of course we know everyone around here. But with my downtown position and Father’s work in the shop, we’ve had no time to make real friends and we haven’t even cared to––before.”

“Before when?” he asked with a kindly intonation not at all in keeping with the purpose which had actuated him in seeking her friendship.

“Before you brought my kitten back to me.” She paused, suddenly confused and shy, then added hurriedly, “We have so few guests, you know. Daddy, somehow, doesn’t care for people––as a rule, that is. I’m awfully glad that he has made an exception with you.”

“But surely you have other friends––for instance, that young fellow I’ve noticed now and again when he called upon you.”

Morrow’s thoughts had suddenly turned to that unknown visitor toward whom he had taken such an unaccountable dislike.

“Young fellow––what young fellow?” Emily Brunell’s voice had changed, slightly, and a reserved little note intruded itself which reminded Morrow all at once of her father.

“I don’t know who he is––I’m such a newcomer in the neighborhood, you know; but I happened to see him from my window across the way––a short, dapper-looking young chap with a small, dark mustache.”

“Oh! that man.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “That’s Charley Pennold. He’s no friend of mine. He just comes to see Father now and again on business. I don’t bother to talk to him. I don’t think Daddy likes him very much, either.”

She caught her breath in sharply as she spoke, and looked away from Morrow in sudden reserve. He felt a quick start of suspicion, and searched her averted face with a keen, penetrating glance.

If this Charley Pennold, whoever he might be, wished to see James Brunell on legitimate business, why did he not go to his shop openly and above-board in the day-time? Could he be an emissary from some one whom the old forger had reason to evade? If he were, did Emily know for what purpose he came, and was she annoyed at her own error in involuntarily disclosing his name?

“He is a map-maker, too?” leaped from Morrow’s lips.

“He is interested in maps––he gives Daddy large orders for them, I believe.”

Emily spoke too hurriedly, and her tones lacked the ring of sincerity which was habitual with them.

The trained ear of the detective instantly sensed the difference, and his heart sank.

So she had lied to him deliberately, and her womanly instinct told her that he knew it.

She began to talk confusedly of trivialities; and Morrow, seeing that it would be hopeless to attempt to draw her back to her unguarded mood, left her soon after––heartsick and dejected.

Should he continue with his investigations, or go to Henry Blaine and confess that he had failed him? Was this girl, charming and innocent as she appeared, worth the price of his career––this girl with the blood of criminals in her veins, who would stoop to lies and deceit to protect them? Yet had not he been seeking deliberately to betray her and those she loved, under the guise of friendship? Was he any better than she or her father?

Then, too, another thought came to him. Might she not be the tool, consciously or unconsciously, of a nefarious plot?

He felt that he could not rest until he had brought his investigations to a conclusion which would be satisfactory to himself, even if he decided in the end, for her sake, never to divulge to Henry Blaine the discoveries he might make.

A few days later, however, Morrow received instructions from Blaine himself, which forced his hand. The time had come for him to use the skeleton-key which he had had made. He must proceed that night to investigate the little shop of the map-maker and look there for the evidence which would incriminate him––the photographic and electrotyping apparatus.

Early in the evening he heard Emily’s soft voice as she called across the street in pleasant greeting to Miss Quinlan, but he could not bring himself to go out upon the little porch and speak to her, although he did not doubt his welcome.

He waited until all was dark and still before he started upon his distasteful errand. It was very cold, and the streets were deserted. A fine dry snow was falling, which obliterated his footprints almost as soon as he made them, and he reached the now familiar door of the little shop without meeting a soul abroad save a lonely policeman dozing in a doorway. He let himself into the shop with his key and flashed his pocket lamp about. All appeared the same as in the day-time. The maps were rolled in neat cases or fastened upon the wall. The table, the press, the binder were each in their proper place.

Morrow went carefully over every inch of the room and the curtained recess back of it, but could find no evidence 103 such as he sought. At length, however, just before the little desk in the corner where James Brunell kept his modest accounts, the detective’s foot touched a metal ring in the floor. Stepping back from it, he seized the ring and pulled it. A small square section of the flooring yielded, and the raising of the narrow trap-door disclosed a worn, sanded stone stairway leading down into the cellar beneath.

Blaine’s operative listened carefully but no sound came from the depths below him; so after a time, with his light carefully shielded, he essayed a gingerly descent. On the bottom step he paused. There was small need for him to go further. He had found what he sought. Emily Brunell’s father was a forger indeed!