All during that day and the night which followed it, the search for Ramon Hamilton continued, but without result. With the announcement of his disappearance, in the press, the police had started a spectacular investigation, but had been as unsuccessful as Henry Blaine’s own operatives, who had been working unostentatiously but tirelessly since the news of the young lawyer’s evanescence had come.

No one could be found who had seen him. When he left the offices of the great detective on the previous morning he seemed to have vanished into thin air. It was to Blaine the most baffling incident of all that had occurred since this most complex case had come into his hands.

He kept his word and called to see Anita in the late afternoon. He found that she had slept for some hours and was calmer and more hopeful, which was fortunate, for he had scant comfort to offer her beyond his vague but forceful reassurances that all would be well.

Early on the following morning Suraci returned from Long Bay and presented himself at the office of his chief to report.

“Here are the tracings from the register of ‘The Breakers’ which you desired, sir,” he began, spreading some large thin sheets of paper upon the desk. “The 135 Lawtons spent three weeks there at the time you designated, and Mr. Hamilton went out each week-end, from Friday to Monday, as you can see here, and here. They had no other visitors and kept much to themselves.”

Blaine scanned the papers rapidly, pausing here and there to scrutinize more closely a signature which appeared to interest him. At length he pushed them aside with a dissatisfied frown, as if he had been looking for something which he had failed to find.

“Anything suspicious about the guests who arrived during the Lawtons’ stay?” he asked. “Was there any incident in connection with them worthy of note which the proprietor could recall?”

“No, sir, but I found some of the employees and talked to them. The hotel is closed now for the winter, of course, but two or three of the waiters and bell-boys live in the neighborhood. A summer resort is a hot-bed of gossip, as you know, sir, and since Mr. Lawton’s sudden death the servants have been comparing notes of his visit there two years ago. I found the waiter who served them, and two bell-boys, and they each had a curious incident to tell me in connection with the Lawtons. The stories would have held no significance if it weren’t for the fact that they all happened to concern one person––a man who arrived on the eighth of August. This man here.”

Suraci ran his finger down the register page until he came to one name, where he stopped abruptly.

“Albert Addison, Baltimore, Maryland,” read Blaine. Then, with a sudden exclamation he bent closer over the paper. A prolonged scrutiny ensued while Suraci watched him curiously. Reaching into a drawer, the Master Detective drew out a powerful magnifying glass and examined each stroke of the pen with minute 136 care. At length he swung about in his chair and pressed the electric button on the corner of the desk. When his secretary appeared in response to the summons, Blaine said:

“Ask the filing clerk to look in the drawer marked ‘P. 1904,’ and bring me the check drawn on the First National Bank signed Paddington.”

While the secretary was fulfilling his task the two waited in silence, but with the check before him Henry Blaine gave it one keen, comparing glance, then turned to the operative.

“Well, Suraci, what did you learn from the hotel employees?”

“One of the bell-boys told me that this man, Addison, arrived with only a bag, announcing that his luggage would be along later and that he anticipated remaining a week or more. This boy noticed him particularly because he scanned the hotel register before writing his own name, and insisted upon having one of two special suites; number seventy-two or seventy-six. Seventy-four the suite between, was occupied by Mr. Lawton. They were both engaged, so he was forced to be content with number seventy-three, just across the hall. The boy noticed that although the new arrival did not approach Mr. Lawton or his daughter, he hung about in their immediate vicinity all day and appeared to be watching them furtively.

“Late in the afternoon, Mr. Lawton went into the writing-room to attend to some correspondence. The boy, passing through the room on an errand, saw him stop in the middle of a page, frown, and tearing the paper across, throw it in the waste-basket. Glancing about inadvertently, the bell-boy saw Addison seated near by, staring at Mr. Lawton from behind a newspaper 137 which he held in front of his face as if pretending to read. The boy’s curiosity was aroused by the eager, hungry, expectant look on the stranger’s face, and he made up his mind to hang around, too, and see what was doing.

“He attended to his errand and returned just in time to see Mr. Lawton seal the flap of his last envelope, rise, and stroll from the room. Instantly Addison slipped into the seat just vacated, wrote a page, crumpled it, and threw it in the same waste-basket the other man had used. Then he started another page, hesitated and finally stopped and began rummaging in the basket, as if searching for the paper he himself had just dropped there. The boy made up his mind––he’s a sharp one, sir, he’d be good for this business––that the stranger wasn’t after his own letter, at all, but the one Mr. Lawton had torn across, and in a spirit of mischief, he walked up to the man and offered to help.

“‘This is your letter, sir. I saw you crumple it up just now. That torn sheet of paper belongs to one of the other guests.’

“According to his story, he forced Addison’s own letter on him, and walked off with the waste-basket to empty it, and if looks could kill, he’d have been a dead boy after one glance from the stranger. That was all he had to tell, and he wouldn’t have remembered such a trifling incident for a matter of two years and more, if it hadn’t been for something which happened late that night. He didn’t see it, being off duty, but another boy did, and the next day they compared notes. They were undecided as to whether they should go to the manager of the hotel and make a report, or not, but being only kids, they were afraid of getting into trouble themselves, so they waited. Addison departed suddenly that 138 morning, however, and as Mr. Lawton never gave any sign of being aware of what had taken place, they kept silent. I located the second boy, and got his story at first hand. His name is Johnnie Bradley and he’s as stupid as the other one is sharp.

“Johnnie was on all night, and about one o’clock he was sent out to the casino on the pier just in front of the hotel, with a message. When he was returning, he noticed a tiny, bright light darting quickly about in Mr. Lawton’s rooms, as if some one were carrying a candle through the suite and moving rapidly. He remembered that Mr. Lawton and his daughter had motored off somewhere just after dinner to be gone overnight, so he went upstairs to investigate, without mentioning the matter to the clerk who was dozing behind the desk in the office. There was a chambermaid on night duty at the end of the hall, but she was asleep, and as he reached the head of the stairs, Johnnie observed that some one had, contrary to the rules, extinguished the lights near Mr. Lawton’s rooms. He went softly down the hall, until he came to the door of number seventy-four. A man was stooping before it, fumbling with a key, but whether he was locking or unlocking the door, it did not occur to Johnnie to question in his own mind until later. As he approached, the man turned, saw him, and reeled against the door as if he had been drinking.

“‘Sa-ay, boy!’ he drawled. ‘Wha’s matter with lock? Can’t open m’ door.’

“He put the key in his pocket as he spoke, but that, too, Johnnie did not think of until afterward.

“‘That isn’t your door, sir. Those are Mr. Pennington Lawton’s rooms,’ Johnnie told him. ‘What is the number on your key?’

“The man produced a key from his pocket and gave it to Johnnie in a stupid, dazed sort of way. The key was numbered seventy-three.

“‘That’s your suite, just across the hall, sir,’ Johnnie said. He unlocked the door for the newcomer, who muttered thickly about the hall being d–––d confusing to a stranger, and gave him a dollar. Johnnie waited until the man had lurched into his rooms, then asked if he wanted ice-water. Receiving no reply but a mumbled curse, he withdrew, but not before he had seen the light switched on, and the man cross to the door and shut it. The stranger no longer lurched about, but walked erectly and his face had lost the sagged, vapid, drunken look and was surprisingly sober and keen and alert.

“The two boys decided the next day that Addison had come to ‘The Breakers’ with the idea of robbing Mr. Lawton, but, as I said, nothing came of the incident, so they kept it to themselves and in all probability it had quite passed from their minds until the news of Mr. Lawton’s death recalled it to them.”

Suraci paused, and after a moment Blaine suggested tentatively:

“You spoke of a waiter, also, Suraci. Had he anything to add to what the bell-boys had told you, of this man Addison’s peculiar behavior?”

“Yes, sir. It isn’t very important, but it sort of confirms what the first boy said, about the stranger trying to watch the Lawtons, without being noticed himself, by them. The waiter, Tim Donohue, says that on the day of his arrival, Addison was seated by the head waiter at the next table to that occupied by Mr. Lawton, and directly facing him. Addison entered the dining-room first, ordered a big luncheon, and was half-way through 140 it when the Lawtons entered. No sooner were they seated, than he got up precipitately and left the room. That night, at dinner, he refused the table he had occupied at the first meal, and insisted upon being seated at one somewhere back of Mr. Lawton.

“This Donohue is a genial, kind-hearted soul, and he was a favorite with the bell-hops because he used to save sweets and tid-bits for them from his trays. Johnnie and the other boy told him of their dilemma concerning number seventy-three, as they designated Addison, and he in turn related the incident of the dining-room. The boys told me about him and where he could be found. He’s not a waiter any longer, but married to one of the hotel chamber-maids, and lives in Long Bay, running a bus service to the depot for a string of the cheaper boarding houses. He corroborated the bell-hops’ story in every detail, and even gave me a hazy sort of description of Addison. He was small and thin and dark; clean shaven, with a face like an actor, narrow shoulders and a sort of caved-in chest. He walked with a slight limp, and was a little over-dressed for the exclusive, conservative, high-society crowd that flock to ‘The Breakers.’”

“That’s our man, Suraci––that’s Paddington, to the life!” Blaine exclaimed. “I knew it as soon as I compared his signature on this check with the one in the register, although he has tried to disguise his hand, as you can see. I’m glad to have it verified, though, by witnesses on whom we can lay our hands at any time, should it become necessary. He left the day after his arrival, you say? The morning after this boy, Johnnie, caught him in front of Mr. Lawton’s door?”

“Yes, sir. The bell-hops don’t think he came back, either. They don’t remember seeing him again.”

“Very well. You’ve done splendidly, Suraci. I 141 couldn’t have conducted the investigation better myself. Do you need any rest, now?”

“Oh, no, sir! I’m quite ready for another job!” The young operative’s eyes sparkled eagerly as he spoke, and his long, slim, nervous fingers clasped and unclasped the arms of his chair spasmodically. “What is it? Something new come up?”

“Only that disappearance, two days ago, of the young lawyer to whom Miss Lawton is engaged, Ramon Hamilton. I want you to go out on that at once, and see what you can do. I’ve got half a dozen of the best men on it already, but they haven’t accomplished anything. I can’t give you a single clue to go upon, except that when he walked out of this office at eleven o’clock in the morning, he wore a black suit, black shoes, black tie, a black derby and a gray overcoat with a mourning band on the sleeve––for Mr. Lawton, of course. Outside the door there, he vanished as if a trap had opened and dropped him through into space. No one has seen him; no one knows where he went. That’s all the help I can offer you. He’s not in jail or the morgue or any of the hospitals, as yet. That isn’t much, but it’s something. Here’s a personal description of him which the police issued yesterday. It’s as good as any I could give you, and here are two photographs of him which I got from his mother yesterday afternoon. Take a good look at him, Suraci, fix his face in your mind, and then if you should manage, or happen, to locate him, you can’t go wrong. I know your memory for faces.”

The “shadow” departed eagerly upon his quest, and Blaine settled down to an hour’s deep reflection. He held the threads of the major conspiracy in his hands, but as yet he could not connect them, at least in any tangible way to present at a court of so-called justice, 142 where everyone, from the judge to the policeman at the door could, and inevitably would, be bought over, in advance, to the side of the criminals. It was a one-man fight, backed only with the slender means provided by a young girl’s insignificant financial ventures, against the press, the public, a corrupt political machine of great power, the desperate ingenuity of three clever, unscrupulous minds brought to bay, and the overwhelming influence of colossal wealth. Henry Blaine felt that the supreme struggle of his whole career was confronting him.

The unheard-of intrepidity of conception, the very daring of the conspiracy, combined with the prominence of the men involved, would brand any accusation, even from a man of Henry Blaine’s celebrated international reputation, as totally preposterous, unless substantiated. And what actual proof had he of their criminal connection with the alleged bankruptcy of Pennington Lawton?

He had established, to his own satisfaction, at least, that the mortgage on the family home on Belleair Avenue had been forged, and by Jimmy Brunell. The signature on the note held by Moore, the banker, and the entire letter asking Mallowe to negotiate the loan had been also fraudulent, and manufactured by the same hand. Paddington, the private detective with perhaps the most unsavory record of any operating in the city, was in close and constant communication with the three men Blaine held under suspicion, and probably also with Jimmy Brunell. Lastly, Brunell himself was known to be still in possession of his paraphernalia for the pursuit of his old nefarious calling. Paddington, on Margaret Hefferman’s testimony, had assuredly succeeded in mulcting the promoter, Rockamore, of a large sum in 143 a clear case of blackmail, but on the face of it there was no proof that it was connected with the matter of Pennington Lawton’s insolvency.

The mysterious nocturnal visitor, on the night the magnate met his death, was still to be accounted for, as was the disappearance of Ramon Hamilton; and in spite of his utmost efforts, Henry Blaine was forced to admit to himself that he was scarcely nearer a solution, or rather, a confirmation of his steadfast convictions, than when he started upon his investigation.

Unquestionably, the man Paddington held the key to the situation. But how could Paddington be approached? How could he be made to speak? Bribery had sealed his lips, and only greed would open them. He was shrewd enough to realize that the man who had purchased his services would pay him far more to remain silent than any client of Blaine’s could, to betray them. Moreover, he was in the same boat, and must of necessity sink or swim with his confederates.

Fear might induce him to squeal, where cupidity would fail, but the one sure means of loosening his tongue was through passion.

“If only that French girl, Fifine DÉchaussÉe, would lead him on, if she had less of the saint and more of the coquette in her make-up, we might land him,” the detective murmured to himself. “It’s dirty work, but we’ve got to use the weapons in our hands. I must have another talk with her, before she considers herself affronted by his attentions, and throws him down hard––that is, if he’s making any attempt to follow up his flirtation with her.”

Blaine’s soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Guy Morrow, whose face bore the disgusted look of one sent to fish with a bent pin for a salmon.

“I found Paddington, all right, sir,” he announced. “I tailed him until a half-hour ago, but I might as well have been asleep for all I learned, except one fact.”

“Which is––” the detective asked quickly.

“That he went to Rockamore’s office yesterday morning, remained an hour and came away with a check for ten thousand dollars. He proceeded to the bank, had it certified, and deposited it at once to his own account in the Merchants’ and Traders’. He evidently split it up, then, for he went to three other banks and opened accounts under three different names. Here’s the list. I tailed him all the way.”

He handed the Master Detective a slip of paper, which the latter put carefully aside after a casual glance.

“Then what did he do?”

“Wasted his own time and mine,” the operative responded in immeasurable contempt. “Ate and drank and gambled and loafed and philandered.”

“Philandered?” Blaine repeated, sharply.

“In the park,” returned the other. “Spooning with a girl! Rotten cold it was, too, and me tailing on like a blamed chaperon! After he made his last deposit at the third bank, he went to lunch at Duyon’s. Ate his head off, and paid from a thick wad of yellowbacks. Then he dropped in at Wiley’s, and played roulette for a couple of hours––played in luck, too. He drank quite a little, but it only seemed to heighten his good spirits, without fuddling him to any extent. When he left Wiley’s, about five o’clock, he sauntered along Court Street, until he came to Fraser’s, the jeweler’s. He stopped, looked at the display window for a few minutes, and then, as if on a sudden impulse, turned and entered the shop. I tailed him inside, and went to the men’s 145 counter, where I bought a tie-clasp, keeping my eye on him all the time. What do you think he got? A gold locket and chain––a heart-shaped locket, with a chip diamond in the center!”

“The eternal feminine!” Blaine commented; and then he added half under his breath: “Fifine DÉchaussÉe’s on the job!”

“What, sir?” asked the operative curiously.

“Nothing, Guy. Merely an idle observation. Go on with your story.”

“Paddington went straight from the jeweler’s to the Democratic Club for an hour, then dined alone at Rossi’s. I was on the look-out for the woman, but none appeared, and he didn’t act as if he expected anybody. After dinner he strolled down Belleair Avenue, past the Lawton residence, and out to Fairlawn Park. Once inside the gates, he stopped for a minute near a lamp-post and looked at his watch, then hurried straight on to Hydrangea Path, as if he had an appointment to keep. I dropped back in the shadow, but tailed along. She must have been late, that girl, for he cooled his heels on a bench for twenty minutes, growing more impatient all the time. Finally she came––a slender wisp of a girl, but some queen! Plainly dressed, dark hair and eyes, small hands and feet and a face like a stained-glass window!

“They walked slowly up and down, talking very confidentially, and once he started to put his arm about her, but she moved away. I walked up quickly, and passed them, close enough to hear what she was saying: ‘Of course it is lonely for a girl in a strange country, where she has no friends.’ That was all I got, but I noticed that she spoke with a decidedly foreign accent, French or Spanish, I should say.

“Around a bend in the path I hid behind a clump of bushes and waited until they had passed, then tailed them again. I saw him produce the locket and chain at last, and offer them to her. She protested and took a lot of persuading; but he prevailed upon her and she let him clasp it about her neck and kiss her. After that––Good Lord! They spooned for about two hours and never even noticed the snow which had begun to fall, while I shivered along behind. About half-past ten they made a break-away and he left her at the park gates and went on down to his rooms. I put up for the night at the Hotel Gaythorne, just across the way, and kept a look-out, but there were no further developments until early this morning. At a little after seven he left his apartment house and started up State Street as if he meant business. Of course I was after him on the jump.

“He evidently didn’t think he was watched, for he never looked around once, but made straight for a little shop near the corner of Tarleton Place. It was a stationery and tobacco store, and I was right at his heels when he entered. He leaned over the counter, and asked in a low, meaning tone for a box of Cairo cigarettes. The man gave him a long, searching glance, then turned, and reaching back of a pile of boxes on the first shelf, drew out a flat one––the size which holds twenty cigarettes. He passed it quickly over to Paddington, but not before I observed that it had been opened and rather clumsily resealed.

“Paddington handed over a quarter and left the shop without another word. He went directly to a cheap restaurant across the street, and, ordering a cup of coffee, he tore open the cigarette box. It contained only a sheet of paper, folded twice. I was at the next table, 147 too far away to read what was written upon it, but whatever it was, it seemed to give him immense satisfaction. He finished his coffee, returned to his rooms, changed his clothes, and went directly to the office of Snedecker, the man whose divorce case he is trying to trump up. Evidently he’s good for a day’s work on that, so I thought I could safely leave him at it, and report to you.”

“Humph! I’d like to have a glimpse of that communication in the cigarette box, but it isn’t of sufficient importance, on the face of it, to show our hand by having him waylaid, or searching his rooms,” Blaine cogitated aloud. “I’ll put another man on to-morrow morning. Leave the address of the tobacconist with my secretary on your way out, and if there is another message to-morrow, he’ll get it first. You needn’t do anything more on this Paddington matter; I think the other end needs your services more; and since you’ve already broken ground up there, you’ll be able to do better than anyone else. I want you to return to the Bronx, get back your old room, if you can, and stick close to the Brunells.”

Back in his old rooms at Mrs. Quinlan’s, Guy sat in the window-seat at dusk, impatiently awaiting the appearance of a slender, well-known figure. The rain, which had set in early in the afternoon, had turned to sleet, and as the darkness deepened, the rays from a solitary street lamp gleamed sharply upon the pavement as upon an unbroken sheet of ice.

Presently the spare, long-limbed form of James Brunell emerged from the gloom and disappeared within the door of this little house opposite. Morrow observed that the man’s step lacked its accustomed jauntiness and spring, and he plodded along wearily, as if utterly preoccupied 148 with some depressing meditation. A light sprang up in the front room on the ground floor, but after a few moments it was suddenly extinguished, and Brunell appeared again on the porch. He closed the door softly behind him, and strode quickly down the street. There was a marked change in his bearing, a furtiveness and eager haste which ill accorded with his manner of a short time before.

Scarcely had Brunell vanished into the encroaching gloom, when his daughter appeared. She, too, approached wearily, and on reaching the little sagging gate she paused in surprised dismay at the air of detached emptiness the house seemed to exude. Then a little furry object scurried around the porch corner and precipitated itself upon her. She stooped swiftly, gathered up the kitten in her arms and went slowly into the house.

Morrow ate his supper in absent-minded haste, and as soon as he decently could, he made his way across the street.

Emily opened the door in response to his ring and greeted him with such undisguised pleasure and surprise that his honest heart quickened a beat or two, and it was with difficulty that he voiced the plausible falsehood concerning his loss of position, and return to his former abode.

Under the light in the little drawing-room, he noticed that she looked pale and careworn, and her limpid, childlike eyes were veiled pathetically with deep, blue shadows. As he looked at her, however, a warm tint dyed her cheeks and her head drooped, while the little smile still lingered about her lips.

“You are tired?” he found himself asking solicitously, after she had expressed her sympathy for his supposed 149 ill fortune. “You found your work difficult to-day at the club?”

“Oh, no,”––she shook her head slowly. “My position is a mere sinecure, thanks to Miss Lawton’s wonderful consideration. I have been a little depressed––a little worried, that is all.”

“Worried?” Morrow paused, then added in a lower tone, the words coming swiftly, “Can’t you tell me, Emily? Isn’t there some way in which I can help you? What is it that is troubling you?”

“I––I don’t know.” A deeper, painful flush spread for a moment over her face, then ebbed, leaving her paler even than before. “You are very kind, Mr. Morrow, but I do not think that I should speak of it to anyone. And indeed, my fears are so intangible, so vague, that when I try to formulate my thoughts into words, even to myself, they are unconvincing, almost meaningless. Yet I feel instinctively that something is wrong.”

“Won’t you trust me?” Morrow’s hand closed gently but firmly over the girl’s slender one, in a clasp of compelling sympathy, and unconsciously she responded to it. “I know that I am comparatively a new friend. You and your father have been kind enough to extend your hospitality to me, to accept me as a friend. You know very little about me, yet I want you to believe that I am worthy of trust––that I want to help you. I do, Emily, more than you realize, more than I can express to you now!”

Morrow had forgotten the reason for his presence there, forgotten his profession, his avowed purpose, everything but the girl beside him. But her next words brought him swiftly back to a realization of the present––so swiftly that for a moment he felt as if stunned by an unexpected blow.

“Oh, I do believe that you are a friend! I do trust you!” Emily’s voice thrilled with deep sincerity, and in an impetuous outburst of confidence she added: “It is about my father that I am troubled. Something has happened which I do not understand; there is something he is keeping from me, which has changed him. He seems like a different man, a stranger!”

“You are sure of it?” Morrow asked, slowly. “You are sure that it isn’t just a nervous fancy? Your father really has changed toward you lately?”

“Not only toward me, but to all the world beside!” she responded. “Now that I look back, I can see that his present state of mind has been coming on gradually for several months, but it was only a short time ago that something occurred which seemed to bring the matter, whatever it is, to a turning-point. I remember that it was just a few days before you came––I mean, before I happened to see you over at Mrs. Quinlan’s.”

She stopped abruptly, as if an arresting finger had been laid across her lips, and after waiting a moment for her to continue, Morrow asked quietly:

“What was it that occurred?”

“Father received a letter. It came one afternoon when I had returned from the club earlier than usual. I took it from the postman myself, and as father had not come home yet from the shop, I placed it beside his plate at the supper table. I noticed the postmark––‘Brooklyn’––but it didn’t make any particular impression upon me; it was only later, when I saw how it affected my father, that I remembered, and wondered. He had scarcely opened the envelope, when he rose, trembling so that he could hardly stand, and coming into this room, he shut the door after him. I waited as long as I could, but he did not return, and the supper 151 was getting cold, so I came to the door here. It was locked! For the first time in his life, my father had locked himself in, from me! He would not answer me at first, as I called to him, and I was nearly frightened to death before he spoke. When he did, his voice sounded so harsh and strained that I scarcely recognized it. He told me that he didn’t want anything to eat; he had some private business to attend to, and I was not to wait up for him, but to go to bed when I wished.

“I crept away, and went to my room at last, but I could not sleep. It was nearly morning when Father went to bed, and his step was heavy and dragging as he passed my door. His room is next to mine, and I heard him tossing restlessly about––and once or twice I fancied that he groaned as if in pain. He was up in the morning at his usual time, but he looked ill and worn, as if he had aged years in that one night. Neither of us mentioned the letter, then or at any subsequent time, but he has never been the same man since.”

“And the letter––you never saw it?” Morrow asked eagerly, his detective instinct now thoroughly aroused. “You don’t know what that envelope postmarked ‘Brooklyn’ contained?”

“Oh, but I do!” Emily exclaimed. “Father had thrust it in the stove, but the fire had gone out, without his noticing it. I found it the next morning, when I raked down the ashes.”

“You––read it?” Morrow carefully steadied his voice.

“No,” she shook her head, with a faint smile. “That’s the queer part of it all. No one could have read it––no one who did not hold the key to it, I mean. It was written in some secret code or cipher, with oddly shaped figures instead of letters; dots and 152 cubes and triangles. I never saw anything like it before. I couldn’t understand why anyone should send such a funny message to my father, instead of writing it out properly.”

“What did you do with the letter––did you destroy it?” This time the detective made no effort to control the eagerness in his tones, but the girl was so absorbed in her problem that she was oblivious to all else.

“I suppose I should have, but I didn’t. I knew that it was what my father had intended, yet somehow I felt that it might prove useful in the future––that I might even be helping Father by keeping it, against his own judgment. The envelope was partially scorched by the hot ashes, but the inside sheet remained untouched. I hid the letter behind the mirror on my dresser, and sometimes, when I have been quite alone, I took it out and tried to solve it, but I couldn’t. I never was good at puzzles when I was little, and I suppose I lack that deductive quality now. I was ashamed, too: it seemed so like prying into things which didn’t concern me, which my father didn’t wish me to know; still, I was only doing it to try to help him.”

Morrow winced, and drew a long breath. Then resolutely he plunged into the task before him.

“Emily, don’t think that I want to pry, either, but if I am to help you I must see that letter. If you trust me and believe in my friendship, let me see it. Perhaps I may be able to discover the key in the first word or two, and then you can decipher it for yourself. You understand, I don’t wish you to show it to me unless you really have confidence in me, unless you are sure that there is nothing in it which one who has your welfare and peace of mind at heart should not see.”

He waited for her reply with a suffocating feeling as if a hand were clutching at his throat. A hot wave of shame, of fierce repugnance and self-contempt at the rÔle he was forced to play, surged up within him, but he could not go back now. The die was cast.

She looked at him––a long, searching look, her childlike eyes dark with troubled indecision. At length they cleared slowly and she smiled, a faint, pathetic smile, which wrung his heart. Then she rose without a word, and left the room.

It seemed to him that an interminable period of time passed before he heard her light, returning footsteps descending the stairs. A wild desire to flee assailed him––to efface himself before her innocent confidence was betrayed.

Emily Brunell came straight to him, and placed the letter in his hands.

“There can be nothing in this letter which could harm my father, if all the world read it,” she said simply. “He is good and true; he has not an enemy on earth. It can be only a private business communication, at the most. My father’s life is an open book; no discredit could come to him. Yet if there was anything in the cryptic message written here which others, not knowing him as I do, might misjudge, I am not afraid that you will. You see, I do believe in your friendship, Mr. Morrow; I am proving my faith in you.”