But more pressing matters drove the curious problem presented by his sister and Good temporarily out of Roger's mind. He was dining with Molly Wolcott that evening, and, as he dressed, his thoughts, quite properly, centred exclusively in her.

It was she herself, however, who recalled the distressing situation.

"How's Mr. Good?" she asked. Somewhat to his surprise her father echoed the question, with what seemed like more than a mere polite interest.

Briefly he told the simple facts as they had occurred, refraining from any attempt at explanation.

"But didn't he give any reason?" asked Mollie incredulously, when he had finished.

"Not a one."

"Did he say there was a reason?" Roger thought it a little odd that the Judge should manifest such concern for a person with whom he could have had only the slightest acquaintance.

"Yes," he admitted, "he did."

"But he wouldn't give it?"

"No. And he skipped so fast I didn't have time to press him much."

"Have you any hypothesis?" The Judge fingered his watch chain nervously. It occurred to Roger that he was making an effort to seem only mildly interested.

"Well ... yes, I have." Roger hesitated for a moment. The theory he had formulated was not one which he cared to present. It would be scornfully rejected, he felt, before he had an opportunity to elaborate it. And, as a matter of fact, he was forced to admit, it was not a very explanatory theory at best. It needed explanation in itself.

"Go on," said Molly. She had noted his pause and was the more expectant in consequence.

"Well ... it's a funny thing—but this business has been in the air. I've noticed a different spirit around the office for a couple of weeks. You know Good was the idol of the boys on the staff. They were a little suspicious of him at first, I guess. He was too good to be true. Bassett has hinted as much. But that wore off. He proved he was no fake. They came to trust him absolutely. Then, all of a sudden, the whole thing seemed to change. I've noticed lots of queer little things lately. The boys have been pretty cool toward him. I've taxed several of them with it, but I couldn't get anything out of them. He's lost his hold on them. There isn't any doubt of that. He isn't the leader any more. He's done something—I don't know what—but it must have made the boys pretty sore. Anyway, they seem to have sent him to Coventry for it. I guess the poor chap got so discouraged he just had to quit. That's the way I figure it out."

"Isn't that a shame," cried Molly. "Do you think he's to blame—has he really done something awful?"

"Blessed if I know." Roger shook his head helplessly. "Knowing the man as I've known him, I can't believe it. But Bassett's one of the coldest of them all—and I'd trust Bassett to the limit. It certainly is a puzzle." He was silent for a moment. Then he added slowly, as if he were reluctant to put his thought into speech: "Of course Good's led a pretty hard life, you know. Maybe some of it came back on him—maybe he had a relapse. Liquor had him once. Maybe...."

"Has Judith any explanation?" asked the Judge suddenly.

"None that I know of."

"Was she—surprised?"

"Honestly, Judge, I don't know," said Roger candidly. "She acted mighty queer. First she seemed surprised, and then she didn't. For a minute I kind of thought she was—well—sore. But...." A picture flashed across his memory of Judith on the lounge, with the sobs shaking her shoulders. "... I guess it was disappointment. She thought the world of Good, you know."

"Indeed, yes!" cried Molly. "I've often thought...." But she never finished saying what it was she thought. Her father rose abruptly.

"I think if you young people will—er—excuse me...." His voice was strangely tremulous. "I'm a trifle tired."

"Your father looks kind of knocked up over something," said Roger when the old man had left them. "Anything wrong?"

Her face clouded. "I—don't know. He's been awfully busy. He's not very well. That attack last winter—he's never shaken it off, quite. Sometimes—I'm afraid! Oh, Roger—if anything should happen...." Suddenly she burst into wholly unexpected tears.

Roger, comforting her, experienced a vague satisfaction, for which he knew he should be ashamed—but was not. Molly was such a sturdy soul, so self-sufficient and self-contained, it delighted him to know that she could cry ... just like any ordinary protectible woman.

Upstairs, in his study, the Judge had seated himself before his desk, the tips of his long white fingers clasped together. For a long time he remained immobile, staring blankly at the wall before him. The single green-shaded lamp at his elbow cast grotesque shadows at his infrequent movements. Finally he sighed, as if he were very tired, and put out the light.

II

When the maid went up with the Judge's coffee next morning, she found him already fully dressed.

"Tell O'Neil I'll have the car at once," he said quietly.

"But Miss Wolcott, sir, she's...."

"At once, please."

In relaying the order to the chauffeur the maid volunteered the interesting information that she had left the Judge swallowing his breakfast with unprecedented haste, and that the newspaper had not been unfolded. The chauffeur, having designs of a serious nature upon her, was obliged to conceal his natural repugnance to haste, disassociated from a motor: but he consoled himself with the other part of her message. It was not unpleasant to discover in the lady of one's choice such evidence of keen perception. He went to his task whistling.

III

As Roger came down to breakfast he fancied he heard the front door slam. Judith was just leaving the library.

"Having callers?" he asked cheerfully.

"No," she said shortly. He noticed suddenly that her face seemed bloodless. Fired with a vague suspicion that matters were not as they should be, he strolled over to the window.

"Whose car is that outside? Say—that looks for all the world like the Judge. What's he doing out at this hour d'ye suppose?"

"I'm sure I can't guess." Judith's voice seemed curiously dry and husky. She was gazing sightlessly straight before her. Roger ached to voice the questions which rose in his mind, but the expression on his sister's face deterred him. He contented himself with studying her narrowly.

It was Judith who broke the silence first.

"Roger," she said suddenly, "I want you to arrange at once with a detective agency to find Mr. Good."

"Oh, see here, sis," he protested. "That's foolish, you know. He'll come back—give him time."

"I can wait no longer," said Judith coldly. "Please do as I ask—this morning."

"That was the Judge who was here. He told you something?" demanded Roger accusingly. There was no reply. He finished his meal before questioning her again. There was still no reply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and left her. When his sister's lips formed a line like the cut of a razor, Roger knew the futility of interrogation or argument.

Within an hour the machinery of one of the greatest systems of espionage in the world was set in motion for the trifling purpose of locating the present whereabouts of one Brent Good, described as well over six feet tall, with hazel eyes, thin hair, a large mouth and nose, heavy eyebrows, a deep and not unmusical voice, a marked stoop to the shoulders, and wearing a suit, as Roger expressed it, "rather brown."