Guy Morrow’s resolve to find Emily Brunell at all costs, stirred him from the apathy of despair into which he had fallen, and roused him to instant action. Leaving the house, he went to the nearest telephone pay station, where he could converse in comparative privacy, and called up Henry Blaine’s office, only to discover that the master detective had departed upon some mission of his own, was not expected to return until the following morning, and had left no instructions for him.

This unanticipated set-back left Morrow without definite resource. As a forlorn hope he telephoned to the Anita Lawton Club, only to learn that Miss Brunell had sent in her resignation as secretary early that morning, but told nothing of her future plans, except that she was leaving town for an indefinite period.

There was nothing more to be learned by another examination of the dismantled shop, and the young operative turned his steps reluctantly homeward. A sudden suspicion had formed itself in his mind that Blaine himself, and not the police, had been responsible for the raid on the forger’s little establishment––that Blaine had done this without taking him into his confidence and was now purposely keeping out of his way.

When the early winter dusk came, Guy could endure it no longer, but left the house. Drawn irresistibly by his thoughts, he crossed the road again, and entering the Brunells’ gate, he strolled around the deserted cottage, 193 to the back. At the kitchen door a faint, piteous sound made him pause. It was an insistent, wailing cry from within, the disconsolate meowing of a frightened, lonely kitten.

Caliban had been left behind, forgotten! Emily’s panic and haste must have been great indeed to cause her to forsake the pet she had so tenderly loved! Much as he detested the spiteful little creature, he could not leave it to starve, for her sake.

Morrow tried the kitchen door, but found it securely bolted from within. The catch on the pantry window was loose, however, and Morrow managed to pry it open with his jackknife. With a hasty glance about to see that he was not observed, he pushed up the window and clambered in, closing it cautiously after him. He stumbled through the semi-obscurity and gloom into the kitchen; instantly the piteous cry ceased and Caliban rose from the cold hearth and bounded gladly to him, purring and rubbing against his legs. Mechanically he stooped and stroked it; then, after carefully pulling down the shades, he lighted the lamp upon the littered table, and looked about him. Everything bore evidence, as had the living-room, of a hasty exodus. The fire was extinguished in the range, and it was filled to the brim with flakes of light ashes. Evidently Brunell or his daughter had paused long enough in their flight to burn armfuls of old papers––possibly incriminating ones.

On the table was the dÉbris of a hasty meal. Morrow poured some milk from the pitcher into a saucer and placed it on the floor for the hungry kitten; then, taking the lamp, he started on a tour of inspection through the house. Everywhere the wildest confusion and disorder reigned.

Morrow turned aside from the door of Emily’s room, but entered her father’s. There, save for a few articles of old clothing strewn about, he found comparative order and neatness. The simple toilet articles were in their places, the narrow bed just as Jimmy Brunell had left it when he sprang up to admit his nocturnal visitor.

On the floor near the bureau on which the lamp stood, something white and crumpled met Morrow’s eye; he stooped quickly and picked it up. It was a large single sheet of paper, and as the operative smoothed it out, he realized that it must be the message which had been hurriedly brought to Brunell in the early hour before the dawn. The paper had lain just where he had dropped it, crushed from his hand after reading the warning it contained.

Morrow turned up the wick of his own lamp and stared curiously at the missive. The sheet of paper was ruled at intervals, the lines and interstices filled with curious hieroglyphics, and at a first glance it appeared to the operative’s puzzled eyes to be a mere portion of a page of music. Then he observed that old figures and letters, totally foreign to the notes of a printed score, were interspersed between the rest, and moreover only the treble clef had been used.

“Oh, Lord!” he groaned to himself. “It’s another cryptogram, and I don’t believe Blaine himself will be able to solve this one!”

He stared long and uncomprehendingly at it; then with a sigh of baffled interest he folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. As he did so, there came a sudden sharp report from outside, the tinkle of a broken window pane, and a bullet, whistling past his ear, embedded itself in the wall behind him!

Instinctively Morrow flung himself flat upon the 195 floor, but no second shot was fired. Instead, he heard the muffled receding of flying footsteps from the sidewalk, and an excited cry or two as neighboring windows were raised and curious heads were thrust out.

Hastily extinguishing the lamp, Morrow felt his way to the kitchen, where he pocketed Caliban with scant ceremony and departed swiftly the way he had come, through the pantry window. By scaling a back-yard wall or two he found an alley leading to the street; and making a detour of several blocks, he returned to his lodgings, to find Mrs. Quinlan waiting in great excitement to relate her version of the revolver shot.

Morrow listened with what patience he could muster, and then handed Caliban over to her mercy.

“It’s Miss Brunell’s cat,” he explained. “You’ll take care of it for a day or two, at least, won’t you? I expect to hear from her soon, and I’d like to be able to restore it to her.”

“Well, I ain’t what you would call crazy about cats,” the landlady returned, somewhat dubiously, “but I couldn’t let it die in this cold. I’ll keep it, of course, till you hear from Emily. Where did you find it?”

“Over in their yard,” he responded, with prompt mendacity. “I was in the neighborhood and heard the shot fired, so I ran in to have a look around and see if anyone was hurt, and I came across this poor little chap yowling on the doorstep. I won’t want any supper to-night, Mrs. Quinlan. I’m going out again.”

Within the hour, Morrow presented himself at Henry Blaine’s office. This time he did not wait to be told that the famous investigator was out, but writing something on a card, he sent it in to the confidential secretary.

In a moment he was admitted, to find Blaine seated 196 imperturbably behind his desk, fingering the card his young operative had sent in to him.

“What is it, Guy?” he asked, not unkindly. “You say you have a communication of great importance.”

“I think it is, sir,” returned the other, stiffly. “At least I have the message which warned Brunell of your raid upon his shop. It’s another cipher, a different one this time.”

“Indeed? That’s good work, Guy. But how did you know it was a warning to old Jimmy of the raid? Could you read it?”

Morrow shook his head.

“No, and I don’t see how anyone else could! It must have been a warning of some sort, for it was what caused them both, old Jimmy and his daughter, to run away. Here it is.”

He passed the cryptogram over to his chief, who studied it for a while with a meditative frown, then laid it aside and listened in a non-committal silence to his story. When the incidents of the day had been narrated, Blaine said:

“That was a close call, Guy, that shot from the darkness. It must have come from the opposite side of the street, of course, from before your own lodgings. The bullet glanced upward in its course, didn’t it?”

“No, sir. That’s the funny part of it! The spot where it is embedded in the wall is very little higher than the hole in the window pane.”

“And Mrs. Quinlan’s, where you board, is directly opposite?”

“Yes. It’s the only house on the other side of the street for fifty feet or more on either side.”

“Then you’d better look out for trouble, Guy. That shot came from your own house, probably from the window 197 of your own room, if it is the second floor front, as you say. There’s a traitor in camp. Any new lodgers to-day that you know of?”

“No, sir,” Morrow replied, startled at the theory evolved by his chief. “But how do you account for the fact that I distinctly heard some one running away immediately after the shot was fired?”

“It was probably a look-out, or a decoy to draw investigation away from the house had a prompt pursuit ensued. Be careful when you go back, Guy, and don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“I’m not going back, sir,” the younger man returned, with quiet determination. “I’m sorry, but I’m through. I wanted to resign before, to protect the woman I love from just this trouble which has come upon her, but you overruled me, and I listened and played the game fairly. Now I’ve lost her, and nothing else matters under the sun except that I must find her again and tell her the truth, and I mean to find her! Nothing shall stand in my way!”

“And your duty?” asked Blaine quietly.

“My duty is to her first, last, and all the time! I know I have no right, sir, to ask that I should be taken into your confidence in regard to any plans you make in conducting an investigation, but I think in view of the exceptional conditions of this case that I might have been told in advance of the raid you intended, so that I might have spared Emily much of the trouble which has come upon her, or at least have told her the truth, and squared myself with her, and known where she was going. I’ve got to find her, sir! I cannot rest until I do!”

“And you shall find her, Guy. I promise you on my word that if you are patient all will be well. It is not 198 my custom to explain my motives to my subordinates, but as you say, this case is exceptional, and you have been faithful to your trust under peculiarly trying circumstances. I raided Jimmy’s little shop last night and carried off his forgery outfit because I had received special information of a confidential nature that Paddington intended to make the same move and lay it to the work of the police, not only to scare poor old Jimmy out of town, but to obtain possession of the outfit himself and destroy the evidence, in case the old forger was caught and lost his spirit and confessed, implicating him. I did not know the raid would be discovered and the warning take effect so soon. I had arranged to have the Brunells watched and tailed later in the day, but they escaped my espionage.

“I shall at once set the wheels in motion to discover the number of the taxicab in which they went away, and I will leave no stone unturned to find their ultimate destination and see that no harm comes to either of them; you may depend upon that. I don’t mind going a little further with this subject with you now than I have before, and I’ll tell you confidentially that I believe whatever part Jimmy played in this conspiracy, in forging the letter, note, and signatures, was a compulsory one; and in the end we shall be able to clear him. You know that I am a man of my word, Guy. I want you to go on with this case under my instructions and leave the search for the Brunells absolutely in my hands. Will you do this, on my assurance that I will find them?”

“If I can have your word, sir, that at the earliest possible moment I may go to her, to Emily, and tell her the truth,” Morrow replied, earnestly. “You don’t know what it means to me, to have her feel that I have 199 been such a dog as not to mean a word of all that I said to her, to have her believe that it was all part of a plan to trap her into betraying her father. It drives me almost mad when I think of it! This inaction, the suspense of it, is intolerable.”

“Then go home and find out who fired at you from the window of your own house. Watch the Brunell cottage, too––there will be developments there, if I’m not mistaken. To-morrow I may want you to go out on another branch of this investigation––the search for Ramon Hamilton.”

“Very good, sir, I’ll try,” Morrow promised with obvious reluctance. “I know how busy you are and how much every day counts in this matter just now; but for God’s sake, do what you can to find the Brunells for me!”

Blaine repeated his assurances, and Morrow returned to the Bronx with considerably lightened spirits. The sight of the little cottage across the way, dark and deserted, brought a pang to his heart, but it also served to remind him of the duty which lay before him. He must find out whose hand had fired that shot at him from the house which had given him shelter.

Mrs. Quinlan had not yet retired. He found her reading a newspaper in the kitchen, with Caliban curled up in drowsy content beside the stove.

“Cold out, ain’t it?” she observed. “I went round to the store, an’ I like to’ve froze before I got back. They said they’d send the things, but they didn’t.”

“I’ll go get them for you,” offered Morrow. “Was it the grocery to which you went?”

“No, the drug store. I––I’ve got a new lodger upstairs at the back––an old gentleman who’s kind of sickly and rheumatic, and he asked me to get some 200 things for him. Thank you just the same, Mr. Morrow, but there ain’t no hurry for them.” Mrs. Quinlan’s wide, ingenuous face flushed, and for a moment she seemed curiously embarrassed. Could she have guessed that the revolver shot which had created so much excitement that afternoon had been fired from beneath her roof?

“A new lodger!” repeated Morrow. “Came to-day, didn’t he?”

“No, yesterday,” she responded quickly––too quickly, the operative fancied. The ruddy flush had deepened on her cheek, and she added, as if unable to restrain the question rising irresistibly to her lips: “What made you think he came to-day?”

“I thought this afternoon that I heard furniture being moved about in the room directly over mine,” he returned, with studied indifference.

“Oh, you did!” Mrs. Quinlan affirmed. “That’s my room, you know. I was exchanging my bureau for the old gentleman’s.”

“Let me see; that makes four lodgers now, doesn’t it?” Morrow remarked thoughtfully, as he toasted his back near the stove. “Peterson, the shoe clerk; Acker, the photographer; me––and now this old gentleman. What’s his name, by the way?”

“Mr.––Brown.” Again there was that obvious hesitation, followed by a hasty rush of words as if to cover it. “Yes, my house is full now, and I think I’m mighty lucky, considering the time of year. Just think, it’s most Christmas! The winter’s just flyin’ along!”

The next morning, from his bed Morrow heard the clinking of china on a tray as Mrs. Quinlan laboriously carried breakfast upstairs to her new boarder. Guy rose quickly and dressed, and when he heard her descending 201 again he flung open his door and met her face to face, quite as if by accident. She started violently at the sudden encounter and nearly dropped the tray.

“Land sakes, how you scared me, Mr. Morrow!” she exclaimed. “You’re up earlier than usual. I’ll have your breakfast ready in the dining-room in ten minutes.”

She hurried on quickly, but not before the operative’s keen eyes had noted in one lightning glance the contents of the tray. Upon it was a teapot, as well as one for coffee, and service for two. Peterson and Acker had both long since gone to their usual day’s work. Mrs. Quinlan had lied, then, after all. She had two new lodgers instead of the single rheumatic old gentleman she had pictured; two, and one of them had entered his own room, and from the window fired that shot across the street at him, as he bent over the lamp in the Brunell cottage. He had one problematic advantage––it was possible that he had not been recognized as the intruder in the deserted house. He must contrive by hook or crook to obtain a glimpse of the mysterious newcomers, and learn the cause of their interest in the Brunells and their affairs. They were in all probability emissaries of Paddington’s––possibly one of them was Charley Pennold himself.

At that same moment Henry Blaine sat in his office, receiving the report of Ross, one of his minor operatives.

“I tried the tobacconist’s shop yesterday morning, sir, but there wasn’t any message there for Paddington, and although I waited around a couple of hours he didn’t show up,” Ross was saying. “This morning, however, I tried the same stunt, and it worked. I wasn’t any too quick about it, either, for Paddington 202 was just after me. I strolled in, asked for a package of Cairos and gave the man the office, as you told me. He handed it over like a lamb, and I walked out with it, straight to that little cafÉ across the way. I had four of the boys waiting there, and my entrance was a signal to them to beat it over and buy enough tobacco to keep the shopkeeper busy while I made a getaway from the dairy-lunch place. I only went three doors down, to a barber’s, and while I was waiting my turn there I watched the street from behind a newspaper.

“In about ten minutes Paddington came along, walking as if he was in quite a hurry. He went into the tobacconist’s, but he came out quicker than he had entered, and his face was a study––purple with rage one minute, and white with fear the next. I don’t believe he knows yet who’s tailing him, sir, but he looks as if he realized we had him coming and going. He went straight over to the little restaurant, with murder in his eye, but he only stayed a minute or two. I tailed him home to his rooms, and he stamped along at first as if he was so mad he didn’t care whether he was followed or not. When he got near his own street, though, he got cautious again, and I had all I could do to keep him from catching me on his trail––he’s a sharp one, when he wants to be, and he’s on his mettle now.”

“I know the breed. He’ll turn and fight like any other rat if he’s cornered, but meanwhile he’ll try at any cost to get away from us,” Blaine responded. “You have him well covered, Ross?”

“Thorpe is waiting in a high-powered car a few doors away, Vanner in a taxi, and Daly is on the job until I get back. He won’t take a step to-day without being tailed,” the operative answered, confidently. “Here’s the cigarette box, sir. I opened it as soon as 203 I got in the restaurant, to see if it was the real goods and not a plant, as you instructed. It’s the straight tip, all right. There were no cigarettes inside, only this single sheet of paper covered with little marks––looks like music, only it isn’t. I don’t know much about sight-reading, but some of those figures couldn’t be played on any instrument!”

Henry Blaine opened the little box and drew from it the bit of folded paper, which he spread out upon the desk before him. A glance was sufficient to show him that it was another cryptic message, similar to that which Guy Morrow had found in the Brunells’ deserted cottage, and which he had vainly studied until far into the night.

“Very good, Ross. Get back on the job, now, and report any developments as soon as you have an opportunity.”

When the operative had gone, Blaine drew forth the cryptogram received the previous evening and compared the two. They were identical in character, although from the formation of the letters and figures, the message each conveyed was a different one. The first had baffled him, and he scrutinized the second with freshly awakened interest:

The three lines fascinated him by their tantalizing problem, and he could not take his eyes from them. The musical notes could be easily read in place of letters, of course, with the sign of the treble clef as a basic guide, but the other figures still puzzled him.

All at once, a word upon the lowest line which explained itself caught his eye; then another and another, until the method of deciphering the whole message burst upon his mind. One swift gesture, a few eagerly scrawled calculations, and the truth was plain to him.

Calling his secretary, he hastily dictated a letter.

“I want a copy of that sent at once, by special delivery, to every physician and surgeon in town, no matter how obscure. See to it that not one is overlooked. Even those on the staffs of the different hospitals must be notified, although they are the least likely to be called upon. Above all, don’t forget the old retired one, those of shady professional reputation and the fledglings just out of medical colleges. It’s a large order, Marsh, but it’s bound to bring some result in the next forty-eight hours.”

With the closing of the door behind his secretary, Henry Blaine rose and paced thoughtfully back and forth the length of his spacious office. The problem before him was the most salient in its importance of any which had confronted him during his investigation of the Lawton mystery––probably the weightiest of his entire career. Should he, dared he, throw caution to the winds and step out into the open, in his true colors at last?

It was as if he held within his hands the kernel of the mystery, yet surrounded still by an invulnerable shield of cunning and duplicity with which the master criminals had so carefully safe-guarded their conspiracy. He held it within his hands, and yet he could not break the shell of the mystery and expose the kernel of truth to justice. There seemed to be no interstice, no crevice into which he might insert the keen probe of his marvelous deductive power. And yet his experience told him 205 that there must be some rift, some hiatus in the scheme. If only he could discover that rift, could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the facts which he had circumstantially established, he would not hesitate to lay his hands upon the culprits, high in power and influence throughout the country as they were, and bring them before any court of so-called justice, however it might be undermined by bribery and corruption.

He had accomplished much, working as a mole works, in the dark. Could he not accomplish more by declaring himself; could he not by one bold stroke lay bare the heart of the mystery?

Seating himself again at his desk, he took the telephone receiver from its hook and called up Anita Lawton at her home––not upon the private wire he had had installed for her, but on the regular house wire.

“Oh, Mr. Blaine, what is it! Have you found him? Have you news for me of Ramon?” Her voice, faint and high-pitched with the hideous suspense of the days just past, came to him tremulous with eagerness and an abiding hope.

“No, Miss Lawton, I am sorry to say that I have not yet found Mr. Hamilton, but I have definite information that he still lives, at least,” he returned. “I hope that in a few days, at most, I may bring him to you.”

“Thank heaven for that!” she responded fervently. “I have tried so hard to believe, to have faith that he will be restored to me, and yet the hideous doubt will return again and again. These days and nights have been one long, ceaseless torture!”

“You have taken my advice in regard to receiving your visitors?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Blaine. My three guardians have 206 been unremitting in their attentions, particularly Mr. Rockamore, who calls daily. He has just left me.”

“Miss Lawton, I have decided that the time has come for us to declare ourselves openly––not in regard to the mystery of your father’s insolvency, but concerning the disappearance of Ramon Hamilton. I want you to call his mother up on the telephone as soon as I ring off, and tell her that you have resolved to retain me, on your account, to find him for you. Should she put forward any objections, over-rule her and refuse to listen. I will be with you in an hour. In the meantime, should anyone call, you may tell them that you have just retained me to investigate the disappearance of your fiancÉ. Tell that to anyone and everyone; the more publicity we give to that fact the better. The moment has arrived for us to carry war into the enemy’s camp, and I know that we shall win! Keep up your courage, Miss Lawton! We’re done with maneuvering now. You’ve borne up bravely, but I believe your period of suspense, in regard to many things, is past. Before this day is done, they will know that we are in this to fight to the finish––and to fight to win!”