DOUGLAS HUNTER sighed involuntarily as he left busy Fourteenth Street, and walked down Massachusetts Avenue. Twelve years’ absence makes a great difference in the ever-shifting population of Washington. He felt like another Rip Van Winkle as he gazed at each passer-by in his search for a familiar face. Even the streets had changed, and he was almost appalled by the grandeur of some of the huge white palaces erected by multimillionaires on Massachusetts and New Hampshire Avenues, and the Avenue of the Presidents. He had spent part of the morning motoring about the city with one of his cousins, and the outward and visible signs of wealth had staggered him. What had become of the unpretentious, generous-hearted hospitality, and the old world manners and courtly greeting of the former host and hostess who had ruled so long at the National Capital? Had Mammon spoiled the old simplicity, and had Washington become but a suburb of New York and Chicago? It truly seemed as if plutocracy had displaced aristocracy.

As Douglas approached the Carew residence he glanced keenly at the handsome old mansion and at the numerous idlers loafing in the vicinity drawn there by idle curiosity. A policeman stood on guard in the driveway, and a number of photographers loitered near by, cameras in hand, waiting patiently to snapshot any member of the Carew family who might incautiously venture out of doors.

The house itself, a handsome square red brick and stone trimmed four-storied building, stood some distance back from the sidewalk with beautifully kept lawns divided by the carriage drive. The blinds were drawn and the ominous black streamer over the bell presented a mournful spectacle. It was the finest residence in that once fashionable locality, and Douglas decided that he preferred its solid, home-like architecture to the more ornate and pretentious dwellings in other parts of the city. As the years went by Senator Carew had added improvements until the residence was one of the most delightful in Washington.

As Douglas turned into the walk, a large touring car wheeled into the driveway, and as it purred softly by him, he stepped back respectfully and raised his hat to the tired-faced man sitting alone in the tonneau. He did not need to glance at the small coat-of-arms of the United States emblazoned on the polished door, or at the two Secret Service men following on their motor cycles, to recognize the distinguished occupant of the car.

As the motor stopped under the porte-cochÈre, the colored butler ran down the steps, and the President leaned forward and placed a note in the bowing and scraping negro’s hand; then the big car continued on down the driveway and out into the street.

Douglas waited where he was for a few minutes before mounting the short flight of steps. The hall door was opened several inches on his approach, and Joshua solemnly extended his card tray, which Douglas waved aside.

“I called to see Mr. Brett; is he here?” he asked.

“Yessir,” Joshua opened the door still further, and inspected him carefully.

“Take my card to him and ask if he can spare me a few minutes,” and he dropped his visiting card on the tray.

“Walk in, suh,” exclaimed Joshua, impressed by Douglas’ well-groomed appearance; then he hesitated, embarrassed by a sudden idea.

“I’ll wait here,” volunteered Douglas, stepping inside the square hall.

“All right, suh,” Joshua closed the front door, “just a moment, suh,” and he stepped softly across the hall and into a room. Douglas glanced about him curiously and caught a glimpse of spacious rooms and lofty ceilings. It was a double house, and to the right of the entrance was the drawing-room, and back of that another large room, which Douglas took to be the dining room, judging from the glittering silver pieces on a high sideboard of which he had a glimpse through the door leading into the square hall. Across from the drawing-room was the room into which Joshua had disappeared, and back of that a broad circular staircase which ran up to the top floor.

Douglas was idly gazing out of the glass panel of the front door when Joshua returned, followed by a middle-aged man with a keen, clever face.

“Is it really you, Mr. Hunter?” he asked, as they shook hands warmly. “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw your card. Come this way,” and he conducted Douglas into the room he had just left, and closed the door softly behind them.

“When did you arrive in Washington?” he inquired, motioning Douglas to take a chair near the window and dropping into one opposite him.

“Yesterday.” Douglas leaned back and studied his surroundings. His eyes traveled over the handsome carved rosewood bookcases which lined the walls, at the large desk table, and the comfortable leather-covered revolving desk chair. The desk silver, drop lights, and large upholstered davenport pushed invitingly before the huge fireplace with its shining brass fire-dogs and fender, each told a tale of wealth and artistic taste—two assets not often found together. His eyes returned to Brett, and he smiled involuntarily as he caught the other intently regarding him.

Brett smiled in return. “I was wondering why you looked me up so soon,” he admitted candidly. “Don’t think I’m not glad to see you”—hastily—“but I remember of old that you seldom do things without a motive.”

“On the contrary, I am here this afternoon to find a motive—for Senator Carew’s tragic death.” The smile vanished from Douglas’ clear-cut features. “One moment,” as Brett opened his mouth to speak. “After reading the account of the Senator’s death in the morning papers, I went down to headquarters to get what additional facts I could, and they told me that you had been put on the case. So I decided to look you up in person, and here I am.”

“May I ask why you take such an interest in this case?”

“Certainly, Brett; I was coming to that. Senator Carew used his influence to get me in the Diplomatic Service, and during the past twelve years he has shown me many kindnesses, such as seeing that I was detailed to desirable posts, and helped me to secure promotion.”

“He wouldn’t have done that, Mr. Hunter, if you hadn’t made good,” broke in Brett quickly.

“I saw him last at Delmonico’s in New York on my way to Japan a little over a year ago,” continued Douglas. “He asked me to lunch with him, and evinced great interest in the mystery of the Jewel Custom Fraud which he, in some way, knew I had had a hand in exposing.”

“Sure he did. I told the department about your assistance when I was in Paris. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d never have landed those swindlers. They led me a pretty dance over the Atlantic.”

“We worked together then,” said Douglas thoughtfully, “and, on the strength of our past success, I’m going to ask you to take me on as a sort of advisory partner in this Carew case.”

“Suppose you first tell me the reason for making such a request.”

“In the first place I owe a debt of gratitude to Senator Carew. For the sake of his friendship with my father years ago, he has taken a great interest in me. Secondly, I am in Washington at his request.”

Brett looked his interest, and Douglas went on rapidly: “Some time ago I received a note from him asking me to apply for leave of absence from Tokio and to come direct to Washington, saying that he wished to see me on important business.”

“Did he state the nature of that business?” inquired Brett eagerly.

“No. I at once followed his suggestion and applied to the State Department for leave. It was granted, and I hastened home as fast as steamer and train could bring me.”

“Did you see Senator Carew?”

“Unfortunately, no. I only reached Washington late last night. I expected to see the Senator this morning, instead of which I read of his mysterious death in the morning papers.”

Brett mused for a few minutes, then roused himself. “I am only too glad to have your assistance, Mr. Hunter.”

“Good!” ejaculated Douglas, well pleased. “Suppose you tell me all the facts in the case so far discovered.”

Brett leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “On the face of things it looks as if the negro driver, Hamilton, was guilty.”

“Tell me what leads you to think that?” inquired Douglas quickly.

“He is the worst type of negro, a vicious brute with a taste for liquor. I have inquired about him and examined him thoroughly and am really puzzled, Hunter, to find out why Senator Carew ever employed him.”

“Is he an old family servant?”

“No. He has only been in Carew’s employ about a year I am told. He knows how to handle horses, and took excellent care of the Senator’s valuable stable.”

“That probably explains why he was kept on,” said Douglas. “I’ve been told that Carew was hipped about his horses.”

“Yes. I gathered from Mrs. Winthrop that Hamilton has been drinking steadily, and his conduct to the other servants grew intolerable. Senator Carew had to discharge him.”

“When did that happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Then, how was it that he was driving the carriage last night?”

“Oh, Carew gave him a week’s notice, said he couldn’t fill his place at once, and told him to stay on. Joshua tells me that Hamilton uttered some ugly threats in the kitchen that evening, but that the servants paid no attention to his black humor, as they saw he had been drinking.”

“I see in the papers that Hamilton vehemently declares his innocence.”

“He does,” agreed Brett, checking his remarks off on his fingers; “he declares he did not see Senator Carew after being discharged by him; that no one was in the carriage when he drove away from the stable at midnight; that he went directly to Mrs. Owen’s residence; and that he does not know when or how Senator Carew’s body was secreted in the carriage.”

“The plot thickens,” muttered Douglas. “Do you believe his statements?”

“I do, and I don’t. The servants all declare that he was half drunk; therefore, I doubt if he was in a condition to pay much attention to anything, or that his statements can be relied on. He was sobered by the shock of finding Carew’s body in his carriage, and, when I arrested him, collapsed from fright.”

“Well, judging from the facts you have just told me, I don’t much believe he killed Carew.”

“Why not?” argued Brett. “Hamilton was apparently half out of his mind from rage and drink, and his brute nature made him seek revenge. It’s quite possible Carew entered the carriage thinking it would not be safe for his niece to drive home alone from the dance, and Hamilton took that opportunity to kill him.”

“I read in the evening paper that Hamilton was told to stop at the house for one of the maids, but, instead, drove directly from the stable to the dance,” said Douglas. “Therefore Carew did not enter the carriage at this door.”

“Hamilton may have been too befogged with drink to have remembered the order,” suggested the detective.

“I grant you, Brett,” said Douglas thoughtfully, “that the negro may have the nature, the desire, and the opportunity to commit murder—but why select such a weapon?”

“Probably picked up the first thing at hand,” grunted Brett.

“But a desk file is not the ‘first thing at hand’ in a stable,” remarked Douglas calmly. “In fact, it’s the last thing you would expect to find there.”

“I don’t know about that; perhaps it was thrown away in a wastepaper basket, and Hamilton may have picked it out of the ash pile,” suggested Brett.

“What did the file look like?”

“It is of medium size, the slender steel being very sharp, the round solid base being silver. I’ve shown it to several jewelers, and they all say it’s like hundreds of others, rather expensive, but popular with their well-to-do customers, and that they have no means of tracing it back to any particular owner. It was something like that one,” pointing to an upright file on Senator Carew’s desk.

Douglas leaned over and took it up. “An ideal weapon,” he said softly, balancing it in his hand as his fingers closed over the round heavy base. He removed the cork which was used to guard the sharp point and felt it with his thumb. “It must have taken a shrewd blow to drive the file through overcoat and clothing so that it would cause instant death.”

“The Senator wore no overcoat.” Douglas looked his surprise. After a moment’s silence Brett edged his chair closer to his companion and lowered his voice. “You recollect how it rained last night?”

“In torrents. I have seldom seen such a cloudburst,” admitted Douglas.

“It commenced to rain about ten-thirty,” continued Brett, “and it did not stop until after three o’clock. Hamilton drove twice in that drenching rain to Mrs. Owen’s and back again, first taking Miss Carew to the dance and returning with her. Senator Carew’s body was discovered on the last trip home. Miss Carew told her aunt that no one was in the carriage with her when she made the first trip to the dance. Senator Carew’s body was not removed until after my arrival here this morning, and I then made a thorough examination of the carriage and, with the coroner’s assistance, of the body as well”—he paused and cleared his throat—“I found Senator Carew’s clothes were absolutely dry—as I said before, he wore no overcoat—now, how did Carew get into that carriage in that soaking downpour without getting wet?” asked Brett, settling back in his chair.

“Perhaps he was first murdered and then carried out and put into the carriage.”

“Perhaps so, but I doubt it.”

“He may have entered the carriage at the stable when Hamilton was not around.”

“I thought of that,” returned Brett, “and as soon as it was daylight examined the yard and the alley. The concrete walk from the house to the stable is being laid now and cannot be used, so that one has to tread on the ground, which is extremely soft and muddy. The alley is a long one, and Carew’s stable is about in the center of it, and the rain, settling in the holes of the uneven cobbles, made walking very unpleasant. I am telling you all these details because of another discovery I made,” went on Brett slowly; “the Senator’s shoes had been recently polished and the blacking was not even stained.”

Douglas leaned back and bit his thumb nail, a childish habit of which he had never been able to break himself.

“Where did Carew spend the evening?” he asked finally.

“That is what I have not been able to find out,” growled Brett. “Mrs. Winthrop told me she had not seen her brother since breakfast. That he went to the Capitol as usual in the morning. She was told on entering the house just before dinner that he would not return for that meal, but they did not state where he was going.”

“Upon my word it’s a very pretty problem,” commented Douglas softly.

“It is,” agreed Brett, rising and slowly pacing the room. He glanced piercingly at Douglas, who was thoughtfully contemplating a life-size portrait of one of Carew’s ancestors which hung above the mantel over the fireplace. Douglas Hunter’s clear-cut features, broad forehead, and square jaw indicated cleverness and determination. When Douglas smiled the severe lines relaxed and his smooth-shaven face was almost boyish. He had a keen sense of the ridiculous, which prevented him from taking himself too seriously. In the past Brett had conceived a high regard for the other’s quick wit and indomitable courage.

“This is Senator Carew’s study or library,” he said, stopping before the desk, “and I was giving the room my special attention when you came in.”

“Have you met with any success?” inquired Douglas quickly.

“So far only one thing—it may be a clew or it may not; under this writing pad I found this blotter,” holding up a square white sheet; “it has been used only once, first on one side then on the other, so that by holding it in front of this mirror you can read quite clearly, see——”

Douglas rose, stepped behind Brett, and peeped over his shoulder into the silver-mounted mirror, which the latter had removed from its place on the mantel.

The large, bold writing was fairly legible. “What do you make out of it?” asked Brett impatiently.

Obediently Douglas read the words aloud:

“‘Am writing in case I don’t see you before you’—” the writing ceased.

“He must have been interrupted,” explained Brett, “and clapped down the blotter on top of the sheet so that whoever entered couldn’t see the written words. Now look at the other side,” and he turned over the blotter on which were traced only a few words:

“‘I have discovered——’” read Douglas.

“What do you think of it?” asked Brett, putting the blotter in an inner pocket of his coat.

“It depends on when it was written”—Douglas’ eyes strayed to the door. Surely Brett had closed it when they entered, now it stood partly open into the hall. He pointed silently to it, and by common impulse both men stepped out into the hall.

Listening intently they heard a faint rap on one of the doors in the upper hall; then a high-pitched, quivering voice reached them:

“Eleanor, Eleanor, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m nearly sick with misery. They quarreled, Eleanor, they quarreled——” her voice caught in a sob—the door slammed shut.

The two men glanced at each other, their eyes asked the same question. Who quarreled?