As Farrell had suggested, Crane sought him at the office the next day at ten o'clock.

Farrell and his clerk were busy planning an enterprising campaign against men who had faith in fast horses for the coming week at Sheepshead Bay.

“Ah!” the Bookmaker exclaimed when Crane entered, “you want that badge number. Hagen, get the betting sheet for the second last day at Gravesend, and look up a bet of one thousand dollars we roped in over Mr. Crane's horse. I want the number to locate the man that parted—I wish there'd been more like him.”

“Do you mean Billy Cass?” queried the clerk.

“Who the devil's Billy Cass?”

“Why the stiff that played The Dutchman for a thou'.”

“You know him?” This query from Farrell.

“I should say! He's a reg'lar. Used to bet in Mullen's book last year when I penciled for him.”

The clerk brought the betting sheet and ran his finger down a long row of figures.

“That's the bet. A thousand calls three on The Dutchman. His badge number was 11,785. Yes, that's the bet; I remember Billy Cass takin' it. You see,” he continued, explanatory of his vivid memory, “he's gen'rally a piker—plays a long shot—an' his limit's twenty dollars; so, when he comes next a favorite that day with a cool thou' it give me stoppage of the heart. Damn'd if I didn't get cold feet. Bet yer life it wasn't Billy's money—not a plunk of it; he had worked an angel, an' was playin' the farmer's stuff for him.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Hagen—did you know the man?” Crane asked.

“Know him? All the way—tall, slim, blue eyes, light mustache, hand like a woman.”

“That's the man,” affirmed Farrell; “that's the man—I saw him yesterday in your place.”

Crane stared. For once in his life the confusion of an unexpected event momentarily unsettled him.

“I thought you identified—which man in the bank did you mean?”

“I saw three: a short, dark, hairless kid”—Alan Porter, mentally ticked off Crane; “a tall, dark, heavy-shouldered chap, that, judged by his mug, would have made a fair record with the gloves—”

“Was not that the man you identified as having made the bet?” interrupted Crane, taking a step forward in his intense eagerness.

“Not on your life; it was the slippery-looking cove with fishy eyes.”

“Cass,” muttered Crane to himself; “but that's impossible—he never left the bank that day; there's some devilish queer mistake here.” Farrell had identified David Cass in the bank as the man who had bet with him, while the clerk asserted that one “Billy” Cass had made the same wager. Hagen's description of “Billy” Cass fitted David Cass in a general way. Again the badge number—11,785—was not Mortimer's, as registered in Faust's book.

Crane stood pondering over the complication. He saw that until further investigation disproved it there could be but one solution of this intricate riddle. Billy Cass, the maker of the bet, was a race track frequenter; David Cass was not. They must be separate personalities; but they resembled each other; they were of the same name—they might be brothers. Billy Cass had been in possession of the stolen note; he must have got it from some one having access to it in the bank—Mortimer, Alan Porter, or Cass—the cashier was quite out of the question.

The next move was to trace back through Billy Cass the man who had delivered to him the stolen money. There was still a chance that Mortimer, unfamiliar with betting and possibly knowing of Billy Cass through his brother in the bank—if they were brothers—had used this practical racing man as a commission agent. This seemed a plausible deduction. It was practically impossible that David Cass could have got possession of the bill, for it was locked in a compartment of which Mortimer had the key; the latter had admitted that the keys were not out of his possession.

This far in his hurried mental retrospect Crane spoke to Farrell: “I think this is all we can do at present. I may find it necessary to ask you to identify this Cass, but I hope not to trouble you any further in the matter.”

“Hang the trouble!” energetically responded Farrell, with huge disclaiming of obligation; “I'll spend time and money to down a crook any day; I've no use for 'em; a few of that kidney gives the racin' game a black eye. If you need me or Hagen, just squeak, an' we'll hop onto the chap if he's a wrong one with both feet.”

Crane said nothing about the other number he had culled from Faust's book; he said nothing about his suspicions of a brotherhood; he wanted to go back to his quarters and think this new problem out.

What if in seeking for conclusive evidence against Mortimer he should prove him innocent? He was treading upon dangerous ground, pushing out of his path with a firebrand a fuse closely attached to a mine that might explode and shatter the carefully constructed fabric.

Sitting in his own chamber he once more went over the whole extraordinary entanglement. Mistaken as it was, Farrell's identification at Brookfield must have strongly affected the mind of Allis Porter. At the time Crane had played an honest part in recounting it to the girl. He had firmly believed that Farrell, owing to his ambiguous report, had meant Mortimer; in fact, Cass had not entered his mind at all. Even yet Mortimer might be the guilty man—probably was. Why should he, Crane, pursue this investigation that might turn, boomerang-like, and act disastrously. Mortimer was either a thief or a hero; there could be no question about that. As a hero, in this case, he was pretty much of a fool in Crane's eyes; but Allis Porter would not look upon it in that light—she would deify him. Crane would commit diplomatic suicide in developing Mortimer's innocence. Again he asked himself why he should proceed. Mortimer was guilty in the strong, convicting light of the apparent evidence; better let it rest that happy way—happy for Crane. But still would he rest satisfied himself? He was not accustomed to doing things by halves. If Cass had stolen the money it would never do to retain him in a position of trust. Then the devil of subtle diplomacy, familiar at all times to Crane, whispered in his ear that he need not blazen to the world the result of his further investigation; he might satisfy himself, and then if Mortimer were found still deeper in the toils it might be spoken of; but if he were found innocent—well, was Crane his brother's keeper? He could adopt one of two plans to get at the truth; he could trace out Billy Cass and extort from him the name of his principal; but if startled, the latter might refuse to divulge anything. Police pressure meant publicity. There was a better plan—Crane always found a better plan in everything. If David Cass had stolen the money he must have sent it to his brother; if that fact were established it would show a connection between the two.

That afternoon Crane took a train to Brookfield. A visit to the village post office disclosed a hidden jewel. As far as Crane was concerned the fate of the two men was held in the hollow of the postmaster's hand. The latter, with little hesitation, allowed him to delve into official secrets.

He learned that David Cass had sent a letter, with a quick-delivery stamp on it, to William Cass, at A B C, East Fourteenth Street, New York, at 3:30 p.m., on June 12. So far as guilt or innocence was concerned there was nothing left to discover; the connection between these two men was demonstrated. Farrell's misidentification established another truth—they were brothers. The letter, hastening to its destination, had contained the stolen money. Mortimer would not give it to Cass to send away; even if he had done so he would not then have gone to Gravesend. Alan Porter had also gone to Gravesend; if he had stolen the money he would have taken it with him.

David Cass, the unsuspected, was the thief. Mortimer, condemned, having restored the money—having taken upon himself with almost silent resignation the disgrace—was innocent. And all this knowledge was in Crane's possession alone, to use as he wished. The fate of his rival was given into his hands; and if he turned down his thumb, so, better for Mortimer that he had been torn of wild beasts in a Roman arena than to be cast, good name and all, to the wolves of righteous humanity.

As a dog carries home a bone too large for immediate consumption, Crane took back this new finding to his den of solitude in New York. At eight o'clock he turned the key in his door, and arm in arm with his now constant companion walked fitfully up and down, up and down, the floor. Sometimes he sat in a big chair that beckoned to him to rest; sometimes he raced with swift speed; once he threw himself upon his bed, and lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for hours. What mockery—hours! on the mantelpiece the clock told him that he had ceased his strides for a bare five minutes.

Then he thrust himself back into a chair, and across the table opposite sat Wrong, huge—grinning with a devilish temptation; not gold, but a perfume of lilacs, and the music of soft laughter like the tinkle of silver bells, the bejeweled light of sweet eyes that were gray, and all the temptation that Wrong held in itself was the possession of Allis Porter.

And Crane need commit no crime, unless inaction were a crime—just leave things as they were. In the eyes of the world Mortimer was a thief; he would never claim Allis so branded.

Crane with a word could clear the accused man; he could go to David Cass and force him to confess. But why should he do it—sacrifice all he held dear in life? Everything that he had valued before became obliterated by the blindness of his love for the girl. Yet still the love seemed to soften him. Into his life had come new, strange emotions. The sensuous odor of stephanotis, that had not repelled in the old life, had come to suggest a pestilence in his nostrils, made clean by the purity of lilac. As he swayed in contention, the face of Wrong fronting him became the face of Sin—repellent, abhorrent; how could he ruin her life, and by a criminal act?

Hour by hour the struggle went on, until, exhausted, Crane flung himself upon his bed to rest a few minutes, and sleep, unsought, came and hushed the turmoil of his heart.

Without decision he had cast himself down; his mind, tortured in its perplexity, was unequal to the task of guiding him. So wearied he should have slept for hours, but, as the first glint of sunlight came through the uncurtained window, he sprang from his couch with the call of an uncompleted something in his ears.

But calm had come to him in his sleep; the question of right or wrong had been settled. He tried to remember how he had come to the conclusion that was alone in his rested mind. It must have been before he slept, though his memory failed him, for as he slumbered Allis Porter had come with the big gray eyes full of tears and asked him once again to spare Mortimer humiliation for her sake. And he had answered, “He is innocent.” God! he remembered it, even now it thrilled through his frame—she had bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Yes, that was what had wakened him. What foolish things dreams were. He had won just a kiss and had paid the price of his love; and now waking, and in the calm of a conflict passed, he had won over the demon that had tempted him with the perfume of lilacs. He had striven to the point when further strife became a crime. He had lost; but he would prove himself a good loser.