Carshaw and Fowle enjoyed, let us say, a short but almost triumphal march to the nearest police-station. Their escort of loafers and small boys grew quickly in numbers and enthusiasm. It became known that the arrest was made in East One Hundred and Twelfth Street, and that street had suddenly become famous. The lively inhabitants of the East Side do not bother their heads about grammatical niceties, so the gulf between “the yacht murder” and “the yacht murderers” was easily bridged. The connection was clear. Two men in a boat, and two men in the grip of the law! It needed only Fowle’s ensanguined visage to complete the circle of reasoning. Consciousness of this ill-omened popularity infuriated Carshaw and alarmed Fowle. When they arrived at the precinct station-house each was inclined to wish he had never seen or heard of Winifred Bartlett!

Their treatment by the official in charge only added fuel to the flame. The patrolman explained that “these two were fighting about the girl who lives in that house in East One Hundred and Twelfth,” and this vague statement seemed all-sufficient. The sergeant entered their names and addresses. He went to the telephone and came back.

“Sit there!” he said authoritatively, and they sat there, Carshaw trying to take an interest in a “drunk” who was brought in, and Fowle alternately feeling the sore lump at the back of his head and the sorer cartilage of his nose. After waiting half an hour Carshaw protested, but the sergeant assured him that “a man from the Bureau” was en route and would appear presently. At last Clancy came in. That is why he was “out” when Senator Meiklejohn inquired for him.

“H’lo!” he cried when he set eyes on Fowle. “My foreman bookbinder! Your folio looks somewhat battered!”

“Glad it’s you, Mr. Clancy,” snuffled Fowle. “You can tell these cops—”

“Suppose you tell me,” broke in the detective, with a glance at Carshaw.

“Yes, Fowle, speak up,” said Carshaw. “You’ve a ready tongue. Explain your fall from grace.”

“There’s nothing to it,” growled Fowle. “I know the girl, an’ asked her to come with me this evening. She’d been fired by the firm, an’—”

“Ah! Who fired her?” Clancy’s inquiry sounded most matter-of-fact.

“The boss, of course.”

“Why?”

“Well—this newspaper stuff. He didn’t like it.”

“He told you so?”

“Yes. That is—the department is a bit crowded. He—er—asked me—Well, we reckoned we could do without her.”

“I see. Go on.”

“So I just came up-town, meanin’ to talk things over, an’ find her a new job, but she took it all wrong.”

Clancy whirled around on Carshaw. Evidently he had heard enough from Fowle.

“And you?” he snapped.

“I know nothing of either party,” was the calm answer. “I couldn’t help overhearing this fellow insulting a lady, so put him where he belongs—in the gutter.”

“Mr. Clancy,” interrupted the sergeant, “you’re wanted on the phone.”

The detective was detained a good five minutes. When he returned he walked straight up to Fowle.

“Quit!” he said, with a scornful and sidelong jerk of the head. “You got what you wanted. Get out, and leave Miss Bartlett alone in the future.”

Fowle needed no second bidding.

“As for me?” inquired Carshaw, with arched eyebrows.

“May I drop you in Madison Avenue?” said Clancy. Once the police car was speeding down-town he grew chatty.

“Wish I had seen you trimming Fowle,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve a notion he had a finger in the pie of Winifred Bartlett’s dismissal.”

“It may be.”

Carshaw’s tone was indifferent. Just then he was aware only of a very definite resentment. His mother would be waiting for dinner, and alarmed, like all mothers who own motoring sons. The detective looked surprised, but made his point, for all that.

“I suppose you’ll be meeting that very charming young lady again one of these days,” he said.

“I? Why? Most unlikely.”

“Not so. Do you floor every man you see annoying a woman in the streets?”

“Well—er—”

“Just so. Winifred interested you. She interests me. I mean to keep an eye on her, a friendly eye. If you and she come together again, let me know.”

“Really—”

“No wonder you are ready with a punch. You won’t let a man speak. Listen, now. The patrolman held you and Fowle because he had orders to arrest, on any pretext or none, any one who seemed to have the remotest connection with the house in One Hundred and Twelfth Street, where Winifred Bartlett lives with her aunt. You’ve read of the Yacht Mystery and the lassoing of Ronald Tower?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Tower are my close friends.”

“Exactly. Now, Rachel Craik, Winifred’s aunt, was released from custody an hour ago. She would have been charged with complicity in the supposed murder of Tower. I say ‘supposed’ because there was no murder. Mr. Tower has returned home, safe and sound—”

“By Jove, that’s good news! But what a strange business it is! My mother was with Helen Tower this morning, trying to console her.”

“Good! Now, perhaps, you’ll sit up and take notice. The truth is that the mystery of this outrage on Tower is not—cannot be—of recent origin. I’m sure it is bound up with some long-forgotten occurrence, possibly a crime, in which the secret of the birth and parentage of Winifred Bartlett is involved. That girl is no more the niece of her ‘aunt’ than I am her nephew.”

“But one is usually the niece of one’s aunt.”

“I think you need a cigarette,” said Clancy dryly. “Organisms accustomed to poisonous stimulants often wilt when deprived too suddenly of such harmful tonics.”

Carshaw edged around slightly and looked at this quaint detective.

“I apologize,” he said contritely. “But the crowd got my goat when it jeered at me as a murderer. And the long wait was annoying, too.”

Clancy, however, was not accustomed to having his confidences slighted. He was ruffled.

“Perhaps what I was going to say is hardly worth while,” he snapped. “It was this. If, by chance, your acquaintance with Winifred Bartlett goes beyond to-day’s meeting, and you learn anything of her life and history which sounds strange in your ears, you may be rendering her a far greater service than by flattening Fowle’s nose if you bring your knowledge straight to the Bureau.”

“I’ll not forget, Mr. Clancy. But let me explain. It will be a miracle if I meet Miss Bartlett again.”

“It’ll be a miracle if you don’t,” retorted the other.

So there was a passing whiff of misunderstanding between these two, and, like every other trivial phase of a strange record, it was destined to bulk large in the imminent hazards threatening one lone girl. Thus, Clancy ceased being communicative. He might have referred guardedly to Senator Meiklejohn. But he did not. Oddly enough, his temperament was singularly alike to Carshaw’s, and that is why sparks flew.

The heart, however, is deceitful, and Fate is stronger than an irritated young man whose conventional ideals have been besmirched by being marched through the streets in custody. The garage in which Carshaw’s automobile was housed temporarily was located near One Hundred and Twelfth Street. He went there on the following afternoon to see the machine stripped and find out the exact extent of the damage. Yet he passed Winifred’s house resolutely, without even looking at it. He returned that way at half past six, and there, on the corner, was posted Fowle—Fowle, with a swollen nose! There also was their special patrolman, with an eye for both!

The mere sight of Fowle prowling in unwholesome quest stirred up wrath in Carshaw’s mind; and the heart, always subtle and self-deceiving, whispered elatedly: “Here you have an excuse for renewing an acquaintance which you wished to make yourself believe you did not care to renew.”

He walked straight to the door of the brown-stone house and rang. Then he rapped. There was no answer. When he had rapped a second time he walked away, but he had not gone far when he was almost startled to find himself face to face with Winifred coming home from making some purchases, with a bag on her arm.

He lifted his hat. Winifred, with a vivid blush, hesitated and stopped. From the corner Fowle stared at the meeting, and made up his mind that it was really a rendezvous. The patrolman thought so, too, but he had new orders as to these two.

“Pardon me, Miss Bartlett,” said Carshaw. “Ah, you see I know your name better than you know mine. Mine is Carshaw—Rex Carshaw, if I may introduce myself. I have this moment tapped at your door, in the hope of seeing you.”

“Why so?” asked Winifred.

“Do you wish to forget the incident of yesterday evening?”

“No; hence my stopping to hear what you have to say.”

“Well, then, I am here to see to the repairing of my car—not in the hope of seeing you, you know”—Carshaw said this with a twinkle in his eye; “though, perhaps, if the truth were known, a little in that hope, too. Then, there at the corner, I find the very man who molested you last night looking at your house, and this spurred me to knock in order to ask a favor. Was I wrong?”

“What favor, sir?”

“That, if ever you have the least cause to be displeased with the conduct of that man in the future, you will consider it as my business, and as an insult offered to me—as it will be after the trouble of last night—and that you will let me know of the matter by letter. Here is my address.”

Winifred hesitated, then took the proffered card.

“But—” she faltered.

“No; promise me that. It really is my business now, you know.”

“I cannot write to you. I—don’t—know you.”

“Then I shall only have to stand sentinel a certain number of hours every day before your house, to see that all goes well. You can’t prevent me doing that, can you? The streets are free to everybody.”

“You are only making fun.”

“That I am not. See how stern and solemn I look. I shall stand sentinel and gaze up at your window on the chance of seeing your face. Will you show yourself sometimes to comfort me?”

“No.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I’d better promise to write the letter—”

“There now, that’s a point for me!”

“Oh, don’t make me laugh.”

“Point number two—for you have been crying, Miss Winifred!”

“I?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Oh, I only wish—”

“How do you know my name?”

“What, the ‘Winifred’ and the ‘Bartlett?’ Winifred was always one of my favorite names for a girl, and you look the name all through. Well, Fowle and I were taken to the station-house last night, and in the course of the inquiry I heard your name, of course.”

“Did they do anything to you for knocking down Mr. Fowle?”

“No, no. Of course, they didn’t do anything to me. In fact, they seemed rather pleased. Were you anxious, then, about me?”

“I was naturally anxious, since it was I who—”

“Ah, now, don’t spoil it by giving a reason. You were anxious, that is enough; let me be proud, as a recompense. And now I want to ask you two favors, one of them a great favor. The first is to tell me all you know about this Fowle. And the second—why you look so sad and have been crying. May we walk on a little way together, and then you will tell me?”

They walked on together, and for a longer time than either of them realized. Winifred was rather bewitched. Carshaw was something of a revelation to her in an elusive quality of mind or manner which she in her heart could only call “charming.”

She spoke of life at Brown, Son & Brown’s, in Greenwich Village. She even revealed that she had been crying because of dark clouds which had gathered round her of a sudden, doubts and fears for which she had no name, and because of a sort of dream the previous night in which she had seen a man’s Indian face, and heard a hushed, grim voice say: “She must be taken out of New York—she is the image of her mother.”

“Ah! And your mother—who and where is she?” asked Carshaw.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell. I never knew her,” answered Winifred droopingly, with a shake of her head.

“And as to your father?”

“I have no father. I have only my aunt.”

“Winifred,” said Carshaw solemnly, “will you consider me your friend from this night?”

“You are kind. I trust you,” she murmured.

“A friend is a person who acts for another with the same zeal as for himself, and who has the privilege of doing whatever seems good to him for that other. Am I to regard myself as thus privileged?”

Winifred, who had never flirted with any young man in her life, fancied she knew nothing about the rules of the game. She was confused. She veiled her eyes.

“I don’t know—perhaps—we shall see,” she stammered. Which was not so bad for a novice.

They parted with a warm hand-shake. Ten minutes later Carshaw was in a telephone booth with Clancy’s ear at the other end of the wire.

“I have just had a chat with Miss Bartlett,” he began.

“Tut, tut! How passing strange!” cackled the detective. “The merest chance in the world, I’m sure.”

“Yes. The miracle came off, so you’re entitled to your gibe. But I have news for you. It’s about a dream and a face.”

“Gee! Throw the picture on the screen, Mr. Carshaw.”

Then Carshaw spoke, and Clancy listened and bade him work more miracles, even though he might have to report such phenomena to the Psychical Research Society. Next morning Carshaw, a hard man when offended, visited Brown, Son & Brown, who had executed a large rebinding order for his father’s library, and Fowle was speedily out of a job. The ex-foreman knew the source of his misfortune, and vowed vengeance.

In the evening, about half past six, Carshaw was back in One Hundred and Twelfth Street. There had been no promise of a meeting between him and Winifred—no promise, but, by those roundabout means by which people in sympathy understand each other, it was perfectly well understood that they would happen to meet again that night.

He waited in the street, but Winifred did not appear. The brown-stone house was in total darkness. An hour passed, and the waiting was weary, for it was drizzling. But Carshaw waited, being a persistent young man. At last, after seven, a pang of fear shot through his breast. He remembered the girl’s curious account of the dream-man.

He determined to knock at the door, relying on his wits to invent some excuse if any stranger opened. But to his repeated loud knockings there came no answer. The house seemed abandoned. Winifred was gone! Even a friendly patrolman took pity on his drawn face and drew near.

“No use, sir!” he confided. “They’ve skipped. But don’t let on I told you. Call up the Detective Bureau!”