I did drive McKelvie home after all, for he quite suddenly insisted that I partake of his hospitality, saying that we should find a better dinner at his house than at any restaurant in Greater New York. From there I phoned Jenkins to look after Mr. Trenton, and then followed McKelvie into a low-ceilinged old room lighted by a mellow glow which made the heavy mahogany furniture seem even more ancient than it really was.

I had not realized how tired I was mentally and physically (it's hard work racing around the city in a car) until I faced my host across the table, and saw how weary he looked. He smiled a little as I unconsciously relaxed after partaking of the soup which the old darky had served to us.

"Mr. Davies," he said, "I shouldn't drag you around with me. It's not fair to you. Go on home after dinner and I'll go to Water Street alone."

"You are tired, too," I returned.

"I'm paid to do this work. It's part of my business to chase after clues," he said. "You are my client, so to speak, and the client is not expected to aid the cause except in furnishing the means to carry it on."

But I shook my head. "I'm too keen on the result to stop now," I replied.

"Even if it should lead you into unforeseen channels?" he queried.

"Even so. Ruth is the first consideration," I responded firmly.

"Very well, and now the best thing we can do is to cease talking about it," and forthwith he launched into an account of a trip he had once taken through Africa.

He was a born narrator, and under the spell of his voice and the influence of that most excellent dinner, cooked as only Southern darkies know how to cook, I forgot the problem that was troubling me, forgot that there were such things as crimes and criminals; aye, even forgot that there was such a place on the globe as New York City, while I followed McKelvie on a lion hunt in the heart of northern Africa.

"And that's where I got that skin," he said, as we rose and sauntered into the living-room.

I gazed at the great rug spread out before the fireplace, and pictured to myself how it had looked the day McKelvie shot it when he spoke again.

"I'm afraid we'll have to smoke our cigars on the way. It's getting late."

With a sigh I returned to the business in hand, and as I drove through the poorer sections of New York on my way to Water Street my mind reverted to the first time I had visited that locality, which brought me around to Dick and the signet ring. So Dick had been in the Darwin home that night, and since his ring was in the secret room, then he must have been behind the safe at some time during the evening. McKelvie claimed that the criminal was hiding in the safe when Orton entered the room at eleven-thirty, but he also maintained that the criminal was the man we had heard when we ourselves had been in the study this very evening. If that were the truth then it could hardly have been Dick, since Dick was dead. Yet what did McKelvie hope to learn by visiting the scene of the suicide?

When we reached Water Street we pulled up before the lodging house where Dick had stayed and rang the bell. Mrs. Blake opened the door and eyed us suspiciously.

"No lodgings," she said uncompromisingly, beginning to close the door.

"Just a moment. We don't want lodgings," said McKelvie crisply, at the same time displaying a bill as he held his hand toward the lighted doorway. "We want you to answer a few questions."

Seeing that we were not of the class to which she was accustomed, and her suspicions allayed by the greenback, she wiped her hands on her apron and asked us in.

We went as far as the hallway, which was more ill-smelling than when I had first made its acquaintance, and paused near the shabby old staircase.

"On the tenth of October a lodger of yours committed suicide by drowning," said McKelvie abruptly. "Is this the man?"

He took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. As she grasped it I had a glimpse of the pictured face and was not surprised to note that it was Dick's.

"Well, I won't say for sure. It looks like the same man, only 'tother was more like the men I takes to lodge," said Mrs. Blake after gazing at the photograph.

"And this one looks like a gentleman, is that it?" supplemented McKelvie with a smile.

The woman nodded, and taking a piece of charcoal from his pocket McKelvie reclaimed the photograph and proceeded to blacken the lower part of the face, giving Dick an untidy appearance, as though he had not shaved for a week or more. Then he showed it to her again.

"Yes, sir. It looks more like him now," she added.

McKelvie pocketed the picture. "What's the name of the man who told you about the suicide?"

"Ben Kite."

"Thank you," and he placed the bill in her hands.

"Phew! It's good to get out into the fresh air. How do they stand it!" I exclaimed.

"So used to it they don't even notice it," McKelvie returned with a shrug. "Drive down to the wharves and we'll have a talk with Ben Kite, if we can find him."

"What do you expect to learn by all this questioning?" I inquired anxiously.

He did not answer except to draw my attention to a group of men lounging on the wharf. "Stay in the machine while I find out if Kite is among them."

He alighted and approached the group, but it was too dark for me to be able to distinguish more than a general blur of outlines.

"Can you tell me where I can find Ben Kite to-night?" I heard McKelvie ask.

"Who wants 'im?" growled a coarse voice in answer.

"I do," replied McKelvie.

"What you want, stranger?" remarked the same voice again.

"Are you Ben Kite?"

"That's the name me mither give me," the man returned, detaching himself from the group, which laughed immoderately at his words. "What you want?"

"A moment's conversation and I'll make it worth your while, but I don't care particularly for an audience. Do you see that car? Tell your friends to remain where they are. You'll find me waiting in the machine if you want a ten-spot."

McKelvie returned to my side and entered the machine. Hardly had he settled himself when the man was beside us. He was the same fellow I had questioned. I knew his ugly face in the light cast upon it by the lamp under which I had parked, but he failed to recognize me, since my face was in shadow.

"On October the tenth a man who lodged at Mrs. Blake's jumped into the East River and was drowned. Am I right?" asked McKelvie without preliminary.

"Sure. I told the bulls all I knowed at the time," responded Kite.

"I know. But I want the information first hand. He came to the wharf and jumped in. Was that the way it happened?"

"Sort of like that. When I seed him he was right on the edge. I hallooed and he flung up his arms high and duve in. I ran to the edge, but he never cum up. Current got 'im, I guess," answered Kite indifferently.

"And the body has not been recovered?" continued McKelvie.

The man grinned. "Well, they ain't had time. It's only four days. He might bob up yet."

I shuddered at the callous way in which he spoke of this boy of whom I had been fond.

"Is this the man?" McKelvie turned his flash on the picture.

"Sure, that's 'im, all right."

"Thank you. Here's your money. Drive quickly, Mr. Davies," McKelvie added in my ear as the man moved away. "If they think we have money they may try to get some of it for themselves."

I gave the car more gas and we were speeding round the corner before the man had more than joined his friends.

"Where did you get that picture of Dick? I do not recall having seen it before. It must be a recent one, for he looks older than I remember him."

"What picture of Dick?" he asked.

"The one you just showed Kite," I returned.

"Oh, that. I noticed it this morning when I examined the house, before your arrival, and that is what I went back to get after our adventure in the study to-night."

"Do you think the body will ever be recovered?" I asked as we turned into the Bowery from Catherine Street.

"No. It would be a very strange thing to recover a corpse that never existed," McKelvie responded grimly.

"A corpse that never existed," I repeated slowly and recalled my own doubts when Jones had first given me the news. "I understand. He was hardly likely to drown, since he could swim too well."

"Yes. Kite told us that plainly to-night. His words were: 'He flung his arms high and dove in,' which meant that he could dive; from which I deduced that he was probably a good swimmer. When a man who can swim, strikes the water his instinct is to swim, no matter how much he may want to drown. Besides, a suicide generally goes in feet first, not head first, for it takes a lot of skill to dive, even when you don't contemplate drowning," he replied, giving me his line of reasoning.

"Then he left his things at Mrs. Blake's to create the impression that he had committed suicide," I said heavily.

"Yes, so that the world would believe that Richard Trenton had drowned himself," returned McKelvie.

"But why? In God's name why? Not because he—" I broke off, unable to finish. Yes, I know I had dallied with the thought before, but then it had only been conjecture with the belief that such a thing was impossible to sustain me. Now, however, it was grim reality that stared me in the face. What other reason could Dick have for the deception which he had practised upon us all?

"We're not going to jump at conclusions, Mr. Davies." McKelvie laid a hand on my arm. "He may have had good reasons for his act."

"What reasons could he possibly have?" I said impatiently.

"When I hear from Chicago, which ought to be any day now, I can answer that question more definitely. Until then we will give him the benefit of the doubt, for, after all, he is not the only one who has vanished without a trace, nor, which is more important, is he the only one in love with Cora Manning," he added significantly.

"That's the second time you've mentioned that the criminal is in love with Cora Manning," I said, as we neared his house. "But there seems to me to be a flaw in that assumption."

"Why?"

"It stands to reason, does it not, that if the murderer loves Miss Manning he must know that she uses rose jacqueminot perfume?" I remarked.

"Yes, he knows it," agreed McKelvie. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he owned one of those yellow satin sachet bags himself."

"Then he can't be as clever as you make out, or he would never have made the mistake of putting a handkerchief scented with rose jacqueminot in Mr. Darwin's hands, under the belief that it belonged to Ruth, particularly if he saw Cora Manning in the study."

McKelvie smiled. "Do you remember my saying that Lee's use of rose jacqueminot looked bad for him? It was because of that handkerchief that I made the assertion. The criminal, as I said before, uses rose jacqueminot, and he has become so accustomed to the scent of it that his olfactory nerves have lost the power to respond to it except when it is present in a fairly detectable amount. There was only the merest trace on that handkerchief, indistinguishable to him, and, therefore, deeming it unscented, he decided it belonged to Mrs. Darwin. I have an idea that he found it somewhere near the door leading into the hall. He would have done better to carry away the handkerchief with him, but like all the rest of his kind, he could not resist the chance to strengthen the evidence against Mrs. Darwin and so put himself into our hands," he explained.

"But what applies to Lee, applies to Dick as well," I returned. "He also possesses a yellow satin sachet bag."

"Yes, that is true," he responded as he alighted before his door. "Therefore we have no right to condemn one more than the other until we have a few more facts at our disposal. I'll call you if there are any new developments. By the way, don't tell Mr. Trenton that his son did not commit suicide until we know definitely what happened in the study that night. Au revoir, Mr. Davies."

"I understand. Good-night, McKelvie," I replied.