Morgan covered up these deliberations by getting out his pipe and tobacco pouch and lighting up. "Now I can talk," he said, as he leaned back in his chair.

"I may have a few facts that you don't know, Marsh, and now that I know the whole situation I can see that they will probably be of some value to you. Or in any event, of value to both of us in the general working out of the case. For I want to say that I am satisfied with your suggestion about our working together."

"I called on this Miss Atwood yesterday. While some of the information which she gave me simply ties up with and confirms your own story, there was one thing I discovered that may help us. Of course, in lining up my evidence, I separated the strong points against you from certain suspicious circumstances connected with the Atwoods. That girl impressed me so favorably that I could not definitely connect her with the trouble upstairs. Instead, I was inclined to believe that I had uncovered something else."

"During my talk with the girl I noticed a peculiar mark on her arm. I brought the conversation around to that mark, and she told me that some time during the night of the crime she had been awakened by a sharp sting in the arm, but had almost immediately gone to sleep again. Noticing the mark in the morning, she was under the impression, so she said, that it was a bite, from some kind of insect—I suggested a spider. But the truth was, Marsh, that mark was made by a hypodermic needle!"

"In my experience I have come into contact with lots of dope users. I know just how they act, talk and look—and THAT GIRL IS NOT A DOPE FIEND. In my opinion there are only two solutions to that mark on the girl's arm. Either she has not slept well of late, and decided to use something to help her, or else somebody jabbed her without her knowledge. The first explanation is hardly likely, because sleeplessness is treated in other ways. Now that you tell me this man Atwood is a criminal, and that you found a bloodstain on the doorknob, I am convinced that someone gave her an injection of morphine so that this job could be pulled without her knowledge. You probably know as well as I do, that the small purple mark, accompanied by the swelling, which I noticed on her arm, would result only from the hasty and careless use of the hypodermic needle."

"What you tell me, Morgan," said Marsh, "confirms what I have thought for some time. That is, that Jane Atwood is only the innocent tool of her father, and the gang behind him. Perhaps not even that. She exhibits none of the instincts or earmarks of the criminal woman, and no woman with easy money at her command would spend the hours and hard work which she does in the study of music. Confidentially, Morgan, I like the girl, and what I have just told you is one of the reasons why I have never attempted to arrest her and force a confession. I felt that all I could really do was to keep her under surveillance until such time as I could catch one of the real criminals getting in touch with her. The father and his gang have either simply been using her to a limited extent to pass their counterfeit notes, or else he has included a few with money which he gave her. Possibly he has maintained her in a home to have a background of respectability to which he could retire in emergencies. Letting her use counterfeit notes may have been just one of the slips of which every criminal is guilty. A really clever man is also clever enough to know that it doesn't pay to be a criminal. No matter how long the rope, there is always an end to it."

"Well," said Morgan, "there's no question that as matters now stand, that girl is our only working point. I have already called on her, and disclosed my identity as a detective, so as far as I am concerned there is little that can be done in that direction. You, as a tenant in this house, however, could cultivate her acquaintance without arousing any real suspicions on her part."

"I have been watching for an opportunity to strike up an acquaintance for a long time," replied Marsh, "but no such opportunity has as yet presented itself. You can rest assured, however, that I am ready when it does."

Just then Marsh sat up and listened, as footsteps sounded over their heads.

"That's all right, Marsh," smiled Morgan. "Those are my men taking fingerprint photographs. That was the next point I was going to tell you about—my discoveries in that apartment."

"You found fingerprints?" cried Marsh.

"No, just the marks of the sides of two hands. Apparently not of much use—but then you never can tell."

Morgan suddenly jumped to his feet. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "that reminds me. I forgot that I had a man sitting outside on the stairs. He'll be wondering what has happened." With that Morgan went to the door and told the plain-clothes man, who had been waiting outside, that everything was going smoothly and he could go back to the station. Returning to his chair, Morgan took up the subject of the clues he had discovered in the apartment. After recounting his discovery of the cuff button, he added, "and that was one of the most damning pieces of evidence which I had against you, Marsh—the letter—"M" on that cuff button."

"That would not have gone very far," laughed Marsh, "because I've never worn an initialed cuff button in my life. In fact, Morgan, it could have been only a clue—not evidence—for it would have been simple, when the loss was discovered, to also lose the duplicate. That cuff button may or may not be a clue. Of course, the tenant's initials do not coincide with the initial on that button, but it might have been dropped by a servant or a friend. As a matter of fact, that button might have been lying under the cabinet for some time before Ames went to Europe. However, it's something worth having and remembering, for one never can tell when even a little thing like that may give some lead that would prove worth while."

"How would you analyze that flattened bullet?" asked Morgan.

"The shot was fired at close range," Marsh replied. "It may have passed clear through the person fired at. That bullet is worth remembering, however, just like the cuff button. Some day it may fit in with and explain other evidence."

"There is one more point," added Morgan, "that may or may not have a bearing on this case. Last night, while my partner Tierney and myself were conferring on this case at my house, somebody tried to listen outside my door. I was pretty sure this was so from the sounds I heard; and when I went to the door, somebody dashed down the stairs and escaped in a motor car. I'm ashamed to say it, now, but at the time I suspected it was one of your confederates."

"You've been mixed up in a good many cases, Morgan, and probably have some half-finished affairs in the back of your head right now. I would say that such an occurrence could be connected with any one of these. On the other hand, this case is very fresh, and you have been active in working it up. Some person may be trying to find out just how close you are getting to the trail, so as to take precautions, if necessary."

At that moment there was a scream in the hall outside Marsh's door. Both men sprang to their feet and Marsh leaped to the door.



CHAPTER IX

THE LAST LETTER

At the same moment that Marsh opened the door, Tierney and the man from Headquarters, who had been taking the photographs, came bounding down the stairs from the third floor.

They all saw the body of a woman lying motionless on the landing.

"Who is it?" cried Morgan, over Marsh's shoulder.

"Jane Atwood!" was the sharp reply.

With that Marsh stooped and took the unconscious girl up in his arms, the unusual tenderness and care of his movements being plainly apparent. Carrying her into his apartment, while the others followed, Marsh laid her gently on a davenport in the living room.

"She must have had a shock of some kind and fainted," exclaimed Morgan.

"No," returned Marsh, as he softly smoothed back the hair from her forehead, disclosing a bruise that was now rapidly discoloring and swelling. "Somebody knocked her insensible." Then added, "You sent your man away too soon, Morgan."

"My God!" burst out Morgan. "What nerve! To think of pulling anything like this in a house full of detectives."

"We have a tough customer this time," declared Marsh. "Ordinary methods won't go. Watch her while I get some water."

Marsh went to the bathroom for a towel and some cold water. In the meantime Morgan turned sharply to Tierney.

"From now on, while we work on this case, your job is to stand outside of every door I enter."

Tierney grinned. To some men it might have seemed that they were being thrust into the background. To Tierney, however, the work immediately presented possibilities that stirred his fighting Irish blood. Without a word he went out into the public hall and closed the door behind him.

Marsh returned, and began to bathe the girl's forehead and the bruise with the cold water. While he worked over her, the photographer approached Morgan and held out an envelope.

"After your friend here picked the girl up," he explained, "I noticed this lying near her."

Morgan took the envelope. After a hasty glance he extended it to Marsh. "A letter to this girl with a St. Louis postmark!" he gasped.

"Good!" exclaimed Marsh, without stopping his work to revive the girl. "Just what I have been watching for. Open it."

Morgan understood. Turning to the photographer, he handed back the envelope. "Slip into the kitchen, steam this open and make a quick copy." Then, noticing the case on the floor beside the man, he added, "Finished your work upstairs?"

The man nodded.

"Then make a photograph of this letter at the same time. The handwriting may prove useful."

Taking the letter and picking up his case, the man went back to the kitchen. Morgan turned to Marsh.

"How is she coming on?" he inquired.

There was a slight flutter of the eyelids as he spoke and Marsh called his attention to it. "She will be all right in a moment," he said.

Presently Jane Atwood's eyes opened slowly, and she gazed in a bewildered and uncomprehending way at the two men bending anxiously over her. Marsh continued to bathe her forehead and gradually she seemed to realize her position. She struggled slowly into a sitting position on the davenport while the two men stood back, awaiting her first words. Contrary to the usual idea of feminine return to consciousness, she did not inquire where she was. Instead she startled the two men by asking, "Did you get him?"

"Get who?" counter questioned Marsh, taking the lead.

"The man who was outside the door," was the reply.

Marsh and Morgan exchanged quick glances. To them it was a confirmation that the listener of the night before was still seeking information about the case in hand. Moreover, here might be a clue to his identity, or at least a description that would prove helpful, so Marsh seated himself on the davenport at her side, while Morgan went to a chair across the room.

Both men knew instinctively that this would put the girl more at her ease than if they continued to stand over her like inquisitors. Marsh continued the conversation. "We know nothing about what happened," he said. "We heard a scream. When we opened the door you were lying there. No one was around except two policemen who came down from the third floor at that moment, having also heard your cry."

After this simple statement of the situation, Marsh paused, waiting for the girl to go on. He felt that in her dazed and weakened condition questions would still further bewilder her, might even cause a revulsion that would delay or prevent their getting information that would prove of inestimable value.

The girl paused, as if to collect her thoughts, and passed her hand before her eyes with a motion similar to sweeping aside a curtain. Then she spoke.

"I went to the hairdresser's in the block below. Returning, I stopped to take a letter out of the mail box and then started up the stairs to my apartment." At this point she passed her hand over her hair and smiled as she realized its disheveled appearance now. "As I turned up the flight to this floor, I saw a man crouched down before the door of this apartment. He did not hear me until I reached the top of the stairs. Then he jumped up, and seeing me, tried to push by. Remembering the burglary, or whatever it was, upstairs, I knew I should try to stop him. So I seized his coat and we started to struggle. Instantly I saw him draw back his arm, then I felt the blow. I remember nothing of what happened from that moment until I awoke just now on this davenport."

Marsh sat up and clenched his hands. "If I knew what the fellow looked like I would thrash him the next time I saw him," he threatened, hoping thus to draw out the description he wanted.

"Oh, I can describe him—at least in a general way. He was short, not much over five feet, and quite thin. His face had a peaked look. While we struggled his hat fell off and I saw that he was almost bald. His nose was large, and taken with his thin face and rather large bright eyes, it seems to me now that he looked just like an eagle."

"Had you ever seen him before?" Morgan asked.

"Never," she answered, and the positive note in her voice could not be mistaken.

"I will send your description to all the stations," said Morgan. "We will try to get that fellow."

Morgan went to the telephone and called the Detective Bureau. He gave the necessary directions, and as he returned to his chair, remarked, "In an hour or two this won't be a safe town for that fellow."

"You are the detective who came to see me!" exclaimed the girl. "Perhaps this is the man you are looking for."

"Perhaps," agreed Morgan. "I can tell better after I get my hands on him."

"Oh, my!" cried the girl, and began to search about the davenport.

The two men suspected she was looking for the letter, and they were relieved to see the photographer appear in the doorway at that moment.

"Have you lost something?" inquired Marsh.

"Yes, the letter I took out of the mail box."

"Here it is, Miss," said the photographer, stepping forward and presenting the letter to her. "I picked it up in the hall where you dropped it."

She took it and thanked him. "I'm so glad you found it," she added. "It is from my father, and I have not heard from him in a long time. I feel better now and will go home."

She rose slowly with the words. Noting her weakness, Marsh stepped to her side and slipped his arm under hers.

"Let me help you up the stairs," he said, gently.

"Thank you," she returned, simply, realizing her need of help.

"I'll wait until you come back, Marsh," said Morgan.

The girl started. "Are you Mr. Marsh?" she exclaimed. Then, as Marsh nodded, she added, "Why, you are the man who sent this detective up to see me."

Marsh glanced quickly at Morgan, who, behind the girl's back, dropped one eyelid slowly and significantly.

"Well, you seemed the most likely person to have information, being right on the same floor," Marsh said, smiling.

There could be no question that this was a natural explanation, and the girl seemed satisfied. With a nod and a smile to Morgan and the photographer, she allowed Marsh to assist her out of the door and up the stairs to her apartment. Tierney rose from the step where he had been sitting, to let her pass, and she favored him with one of her pretty smiles as he did so. Tierney then climbed after them to the next landing and stood watching. Marsh waited until the door closed after her. Then, with a catch in his breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, he went back to his apartment. Tierney gave him a peculiar look as he passed.

The photographer had gone, but Morgan held out the copy which he had made of the letter as soon as Marsh entered, with the remark, "Now, what's the game?"

Marsh took it and read:

My dear Daughter:

I have returned from the last trip I shall ever make. I have never told you, not wishing to cause you worry, but my health has been gradually failing for many years.

I can no longer attend to my duties on the road and have had to give up my position. The doctor gives me but a few months to live, so rather than be a burden to you I have decided to end the thing at once. When this letter reaches you, the Mississippi will be carrying my body to the sea, where I hope that it will be lost to the world forever.

Knowing that my time was approaching, I long ago arranged for your future. If you will identify yourself to the National Trust Company, Chicago, you will find that you have been amply provided for. As we do not lease the apartment direct from the owner, you had better move out at once and go to an hotel. No one can hold you responsible.

Good luck and success in your music. God bless you, and good-bye.

Your devoted father.

"What's the game?" repeated Morgan, when he saw that Marsh had finished reading the letter.

"A convenient disappearance, that is all," returned Marsh. "Things were beginning to get too hot for him. No doubt he thought you were getting closer than you really were. Poor girl," he added. "She will take it as gospel truth, and we dare not tell her otherwise—not now, anyway."

"One thing is certain in my mind now," asserted Morgan. "There was a murder upstairs. They planned to put some person who was becoming a menace, quietly out of the way. But you spoiled it!"

"No, I did not spoil it," said Marsh. "The shot did that. I have felt for some time that that shot was a mistake—a slipup somewhere."

"I've got to go; it is two o'clock," exclaimed Morgan as he looked at his watch. "Where shall we hold future conferences! I do not want to be seen coming here too often. It might lead to suspicions of you, and I think we can accomplish more if your connection with the case is not made clear."

"How about your house?" inquired Marsh. "Knowing that you are now suspicious, and with Tierney on the doorstep, they will probably keep away from there in the future."

"Well, let it stand at that for the present," agreed Morgan. "Telephone me when you want to come. My number is in the telephone book."

With that the two men's hands met in a strong grip as if to seal their future partnership. Morgan opened the door and then started back with a cry.

Tierney lay stretched out across the landing, apparently asleep.

But Morgan knew the man better.



CHAPTER X

THE STOLEN SUITCASE

The placing of Tierney on guard in the hall had been an impulsive act on Morgan's part. It was more to put an idea into immediate execution than to actually have a protecting outpost at this time, for the very nature of his experience would have told Morgan that after the mysterious attack upon Jane Atwood there would be little possibility of a similar occurrence the same day. The instant he saw Tierney lying in the hall, however, he realized that the man had been the victim of a somewhat similar attack, and the mere thought that such a thing was possible stunned him into inaction for a moment. The next minute both he and Marsh were kneeling at Tierney's side and endeavoring to arouse him.

Morgan removed Tierney's cap and passed his hand around over the man's head until he found a slight lump, a little back of the right ear.

"Knocked out with a black-jack!" he cried. "How could a man get that close to Tierney without being heard!"

"The carpet in these halls and on the stairs is well padded," explained Marsh. "I have noticed on a number of occasions that people passing up and down these stairs make very little noise unless a foot happens to strike the woodwork. And you can be sure of one thing, Morgan, this man must have been pretty close at hand. He got into action without having to do much climbing."

"Or descending," added Morgan, suddenly, looking at Marsh.

"If he came DOWN the stairs, Morgan, then the girl has certainly been pulling the wool over our eyes."

Morgan shook his head doubtfully. "Well, I'll acknowledge that it takes a pretty wise detective to understand a woman."

At this moment, Tierney showed signs of coming back to life. His eyes opened and looked at them with a dazed stare. Almost instantly this changed to a savage glare. His two arms shot up, seized the men leaning over him and pulled them down. Like most people who have been knocked unconscious, Tierney had no idea of the intervening lapse of time. Before becoming unconscious he had probably realized that he was attacked, and he was now taking up the fight where he had left off.

"Hold on, Tierney—this is Morgan—Morgan—do you understand? And this is Marsh with me!"

The two men held Tierney down until he had a chance to collect his thoughts. Then he smiled sheepishly as he looked from one to the other. "What the—!" he began; then paused.

They jerked him to his feet and set him down on the stair. There he sat for a moment, rubbing the sore spot on his head, of which he now began to be conscious.

"Guess I'd better resign," he said, dolefully, coming to a full realization of the situation. "A detective ain't much use after he begins to need a bodyguard."

"Cut the nonsense, Tierney," admonished Morgan. "Tell us what happened."

"That's what I'd like to know," growled Tierney.

"Well then," suggested Morgan, "tell us what happened up to the point where you don't know anything."

"Let's see," reflected Tierney. "When you sent me out into the hall, the first thing I did was to go part way up this flight of stairs and make sure that all was clear above. Then I sat down exactly where I am sitting now, but close to the stair rail. I figured that if anybody came up the stairs I could see him before he spotted me. I heard a couple of people go out downstairs, but everything was quiet up here. I kept my eye on your friend here while he took the girl upstairs. After he went in I settled back in the same place again. Finally I felt like a smoke. There didn't seem much chance of anybody coming back again, so I figured I might as well have a smoke and I got out my pipe. While I was lighting up, something hit me. You know the rest better than I do."

"But," expostulated Morgan, "you're no green hand, Tierney. How could anybody sneak up behind you without your hearing them?"

Tierney looked foolish for a moment, then brightened up. "Morgan," he said, "I've got the dope. That old pipe of mine was wheezing like a sick horse when I began to pull on it. That's what gave the fellow his chance. I'll admit it, Morgan—I should have known better than to light it in the first place."

"All right, Tierney, you've learned your lesson. But I'm afraid you let something good slip by you."

"It is my opinion," Marsh broke in, "that he has let the most important actor in the drama get away. The man must have been pretty desperate to take such a chance, and I doubt if anyone but the leading character would have been so anxious to get away quickly and unseen. Now then, let us go up to the Atwood apartment. I will assume the role of protector to Miss Atwood while you two, whom she knows to be detectives, can search the flat."

At this, Tierney stood up on the stairs and looked suspiciously at Marsh. Then, as Morgan agreed to the idea, Tierney turned toward him and exclaimed, "Say, you gone crazy?"

Morgan gazed at him in astonishment.

Marsh laughed. "Tierney is still suspicious," he said.

Morgan's face lit up with understanding. Going over to Tierney, he whispered in his ear.

"Well, I'm damned!" Tierney mumbled.

The three men then climbed the stairs to the Atwood apartment, and Morgan's hand was already on the push button of the electric bell when there was an exclamation from Marsh.

"Stop!" he cried. "Look here."

They instantly saw what he meant. The wood door was standing open about two inches, and there was sufficient light in the entrance hall of the apartment to show that at least no one was looking out.

"Remember, I'm in the background on this," Marsh whispered to Morgan. "You two take, the lead—but be cautious."

Morgan pulled out his revolver and Tierney followed his example. Then Morgan gave the door a quick push and stood back. It swung back against the wall with a resounding thud, but outside of that sound everything remained silent. The three men then moved warily into the doorway, with Tierney and Morgan in the lead. While Marsh remained in the entrance hall, Tierney stepped into the living room and Morgan crept cautiously through the portieres into the dining room. So silently did these two men move that Marsh heard, nothing until, a moment later, he saw Morgan step back through the portieres. The doors of both the bedroom and the bathroom stood open and Morgan, without saying anything to Marsh, investigated these two rooms. Then he returned to the entrance hall and spoke to Marsh, who had already been joined by Tierney.

"Not a soul in the flat but the girl," whispered Morgan. "She's in a chair in the dining room, and apparently unconscious again. There's an odor of chloroform in the dining room!"

Marsh sprang through the dining room portieres, followed by the others. He found Jane Atwood in a rocking chair near one of the windows. She was apparently unconscious, but there were convulsive movements of her body. Marsh sniffed the aromatic odor and nodded. "I don't think they gave her much," he said. "She's just barely unconscious. I'll try to revive her while you two look things over more carefully."

Morgan turned to Tierney. "You take another look at the front," he directed. "Look through all the drawers and closets, but be careful not to leave anything upset."

Tierney promptly started on his work of investigation. Morgan turned back into the kitchen. He had previously noticed that the maid's room was upset and he wanted to examine this room again. The bed was made up, but as the linen was fresh and unwrinkled it seemed certain that no one had occupied it recently. The chief cause of the disorder seemed to have been a hasty examination of the closet. A roll of blankets and some other articles that had evidently been on the shelf of the closet had been pulled down and scattered over the bedroom floor. A couple of suits, and other articles of men's attire, were hung on the hooks, apparently undisturbed. Morgan saw that a speedy search had been made for something. Whether or not the object had been found it was impossible to say.

Going back into the kitchen, and trying the rear door, he discovered that, though closed, it was unlocked. He locked it, and returning to the dining room, found that Marsh had succeeded in reviving the girl. Tierney was also there, and the two men were chatting with her.

"You seem to be having a good deal of trouble today," said Morgan, as he neared her.

She smiled wanly at him.

"I can't understand it at all. Burglars must be extremely bold in Chicago."

"Do you think it was a burglar?" asked Morgan.

"What else could it be?" she returned. "I am sure that I have no enemies anywhere, and I haven't even any friends in Chicago."

"Are you keeping anything of special value in the house?" inquired Morgan.

"Only what you can see about you," she replied "And these rings, which have not been touched."

"You are sure you didn't have anything of value concealed in the maid's room?"

"No, that's the room my father uses when he comes home from his trips."

"Well, perhaps he had something of value there."

"I'm quite sure he did not," she said, positively.

"How do you feel now, Miss Atwood?" asked Marsh, catching the drift of the questioning.

"Just a little bewildered," she replied, "and slightly nauseated, but I think I shall be all right presently."

"Do you feel equal to looking over that room now?" Marsh inquired.

"I think so," she said, and with Marsh's assistance, she arose from her chair.

Morgan led the way and the girl, leaning on Marsh's arm, followed.

"You see," said Morgan, when they had reached the maid's room, "somebody has pulled everything off the shelf. Is there anything missing as far as you know?"

Miss Atwood looked over the articles on the floor, glanced at the empty shelf, and at the bottom of the closet. Then she turned to Morgan. "My father had a suitcase on that shelf," she said. "I do not see it there now."

"Oh," murmured Morgan. "Was it an empty suitcase?"

"I really couldn't tell you. I never examined it, as it was always pretty well hidden under a lot of other things."

"I see," said Morgan. "The burglar evidently stole only the suitcase, thinking perhaps there was something of value in it. We'd better go now," he added, turning to the others. "Miss Atwood will want to lie down and rest after her exciting day."

When they reached the front door, Morgan turned to her. "Do you expect your father home soon, Miss Atwood?" he inquired.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I haven't read my letter yet. You see, I had just reached the dining room when that burglar attacked me."

"You need not worry about any further disturbances or attacks, Miss Atwood," Morgan assured her. "There will be a policeman at the front and back of this house inside of an hour, and they will stay here until we clear up this case."

"And remember that I live close at hand, on the floor below, Miss Atwood," reminded Marsh. "If there is anything I can do to help you at any time, don't fail to call upon me."

"Thank you," she replied, and closed the door as the men went down the stairs.



CHAPTER XI

THE TRAIL GROWS CLEARER

"I want to use your telephone for a minute," Morgan said to Marsh, as they went down the stairs. "I want to have men put on duty here as soon as possible, and I think it would be well to send out that description you have of Atwood. We might catch him at one of the railway stations, trying to leave the city."

Marsh unlocked the door of his apartment and Morgan immediately went to the telephone. He gave the Detective Bureau a description of Atwood, added that the man would probably be carrying a suitcase, and suggested that all outgoing trains be watched. Then he got the captain of the precinct on the telephone, and after explaining the attacks that had taken place, was assured that two men would be placed on duty to watch the house within a few minutes.

"Good Lord, I'm starving to death!" cried Tierney, as Morgan left the telephone. "What time is it, anyway?"

Morgan glanced at his watch.

"Three-thirty," he replied. "Now you speak of it, Tierney, I feel kind of hungry, myself. How about you, Marsh?"

"It was on my mind to suggest a little luncheon," returned Marsh. "Suppose we run down to Sally's Waffle Shop. It's only a block south, and it would be a quiet place to talk things over while we are eating. It is a good place to eat, too. I've had nearly all of my meals there since I took this apartment."

The others agreeing, the three men then walked down to the little restaurant. As it was an off hour they were able to get a table in a secluded corner where their conversation could not be overheard.

"I think this lunch should be on me," said Morgan, as he looked at Marsh with a twinkle in his eye.

"No," objected Marsh, "I should hardly call you a loser. Your work has really disclosed a lot."

"Anyway, Headquarters will think you're doing something, Morgan," broke in Tierney. "All those descriptions you shot over the 'phone today looked as if you were getting the dope on somebody."

"I suggest," said Marsh, "that as you fellows have been my guests most of the day, you now be my guests for luncheon. Order what you like. You can get anything here from waffles to a full meal."

"A big, fat, juicy steak for mine!" cried. Tierney.

"Yes, you're an invalid, aren't you!" scoffed Morgan.

Tierney rubbed the bump on his head and grinned.

They gave their orders to the waitress, and while waiting, Morgan explained Marsh's participation in the work in reply to an anxious reminder from Tierney. The startling shattering of the net, which they believed they had drawn around Marsh, for once stunned Tierney into silence. When their hunger had been partly satisfied, Morgan reminded Marsh that they had not yet analysed the peculiar situation discovered in the Atwood apartment.

"I hurried you fellows out so we could talk over that suitcase," Morgan explained. "Of course, I've got some ideas of my own, but I'd like to know what you think, Marsh."

"Well," replied Marsh, "if you and Tierney will tell me exactly what you discovered, I'll tell you what I think."

"My part's easy to tell," said Tierney. "I didn't find anything suspicious. I spent most of the time turning over a lot of pink silk and lace things that almost made me blush. There were no letters or photographs, and as far as I could see, none of the things had been disturbed until I turned them over myself."

"And I," said Morgan, "found the mess that you saw in the maid's room. I also discovered that the back door was unlocked."

"I had a theory," explained, Marsh, "and what you say about the back door clinches it. Now, suppose you were a crook, and had committed a crime that, through careless management, had brought the police right next door to your headquarters; the place you had hoped to reserve for emergencies, as a matter of fact. Suppose you had reason to believe that they would begin to suspect you. You have long had a plan ready to throw the police off the scent, if anything should ever happen, by pretending to make away with yourself. You put the first step of this plan into execution by sending a letter stating that you are now as good as dead. Then you suddenly remember that at your refuge you have left some important evidence; something that, if discovered, might offset your well-laid plans. What would you do? You'd try to get that evidence, wouldn't you?"

"That is precisely what happened. Atwood, accompanied by one of his men, who was to stand guard, returned to his apartment to secure that almost forgotten evidence. Now, the man he left on guard heard some familiar voices, or perhaps a name he recognized. He overlooked his duty for the moment and tried to listen. He was discovered. Naturally, his first thought was of himself, and he made his escape. Up in his apartment, Atwood, who had secured what he sought, is ready to go, but is delayed by this disturbance in the hall. He doesn't know exactly, what it is, so he sticks close. Then he thinks of making his escape down the back stairs, but unfortunately some of his feminine neighbors are gossiping on the stairs below. He could not go down that way without attracting attention that might prove awkward later. Suddenly he hears the door of his apartment open, and some person enter. He watches, and discovers that his daughter has come home, alone. Now, if she should see him, his well-laid plan is ruined. Its greatest success lies in her honest conviction that he is really dead. He is trapped; front, rear and on the premises. He is desperate. Something must be done quickly. In a favorable moment he springs upon the girl from behind and renders her unconscious with chloroform. He finds the back stairs still closed to him, and in his haste forgets to lock the door as he closes it. He finds a man keeping guard on the front stairs. He decides quickly that he can deal better with this man than the women of the back. He watches and waits, leaving the door open for a quick retreat. His opportunity comes when this man's attention is directed to the lighting of a pipe. In a flash he is down the stairs, knocks the man unconscious, and goes out the front door. The next minute he is lost in the crowds on the street and is free."

"That, gentlemen, is my explanation of what happened in the house today. Of course, it is largely theory, but I believe it fits the case uncommonly well."

"I'll say you're there!" cried Tierney.

"Yes," Morgan agreed. "You talk as if you had been a spectator of the whole occurrence. I doubt if a clearer explanation could be made, and I think you came pretty near the truth when you said a little while ago that we actually had uncovered something today. There is still a mystery of some kind, but thanks to you, we are now in a position to take some definite steps toward solving it."

"Still, there is one illogical point in your surmise. The letter from St. Louis arrived sometime this morning. If Atwood was in Chicago Tuesday morning, how did he get that letter off, so quickly?"

"The trouble with an analysis based chiefly on speculation, Morgan, is that many points may seem illogical and unexplained. We can only rely definitely upon the outstanding features. However, I never adopt any explanation unless it has a basis in possibility. You remember that a while ago I told you I thought that shot was a mistake—that it was never intended a shot should be fired. Whoever was engaged in that occurrence knew that the shot would lead to a police investigation, and once the police start, there is no telling where the matter may end. To head them off quickly, is it not possible that someone left immediately for St. Louis to post that letter?"

Morgan nodded. "It's straining a point, but it's quite possible, Marsh. At least, we have no better explanation."

They had finished their meal, and after Marsh settled the bill, parted on the sidewalk; Marsh to return to his apartment and await developments there, while Morgan and Tierney undertook some investigations which Morgan had in mind.

On his return to the house, Marsh noted with satisfaction that a policeman in uniform was already on duty. However, he wanted to make sure that the girl was all right, so instead of going directly to his apartment, he continued on up the stairs to the Atwood apartment and rang the bell. After a slight pause, Miss Atwood opened the door. Her eyes were red with weeping, and she held her handkerchief so as to partly conceal her face.

"I called to see if everything was all right," explained Marsh. "Why, what has happened?"

He knew perfectly well the cause of the girl's trouble, and he had to struggle hard to assume an air of ignorance. It tore his heart to see this girl, for whom he felt a growing affection, in such distress, knowing that all the time he possessed the knowledge to sweep away her grief. And yet would it? Was it not probable that a girl like her would feel even greater grief at the knowledge that her father was a hunted criminal instead of merely dead? She presented a most pitiable figure standing there, absolutely alone in the world. She had gone through experiences that day which would have made the average woman collapse, and to cap it all she had received the final blow in the news of her father's death.

Marsh's heart went out to her: He longed to take her into his arms and ask her to allow him to henceforward be her protector. It was hard to hold himself in check, yet he knew that it was no time for this disclosure of his own feelings. Instead, he stepped quietly through the door and sat down in the living room, where the girl joined him. She wept silently for a few moments, while Marsh sat and waited. At last she spoke.

"My father is dead, Mr. Marsh."

"What a shock!" he exclaimed. "I am so sorry. How did it happen?"

"You know I received a letter from him this morning. It said that his health had failed, that he could no longer work, and that by the time the letter reached me he world have committed suicide."

Marsh's life had been devoted to running down criminals. He had had very little to do with women except those of the criminal type. He was at a loss, therefore, for words to comfort this delicate girl. He was further embarrassed by the knowledge of facts which he dared not divulge. Everything he said sounded crude and rough in his ears, but somehow his words seemed to have a soothing effect on the girl and eventually her weeping ceased.

"She's a wonder!" thought Marsh. "The bravest little woman I ever knew." Then addressing her, he said, "Miss Atwood, after all that has happened, it is not possible for you to stay here alone tonight. You should go to an hotel, where you will feel protected and secure, and at least know that, even though they are not your friends, you have people all about you." He hesitated a moment, then added, "I hope you will receive my offer in the spirit in which it is intended. If you are in any way financially embarrassed at the moment, I would be glad to take care of your hotel expenses until you can straighten out your affairs."

"Thank you, Mr. Marsh," she returned. "I appreciate both your offer and the spirit in which you make it, but I am well provided with funds. Father was always generous with me, and even in his last letter he said that he had left me well provided for."

"Then pack up a bag at once, Miss Atwood, and let me escort you to some hotel. I suggest the Monmouth. It is only a couple of blocks away and I know it to be a nice, quiet family hotel where the people would be congenial. In this time of trouble you would find it a comfort to have a few women friends. I think you have made a mistake in devoting so much time to your musical studies, while neglecting social opportunities."

The girl considered a moment, then, springing up, said, "I will follow your suggestion. It would be dreadful to stay here alone tonight. In fact, now that I have no one to make a home for, it would probably be better for me to stay permanently at an hotel."

She went to her room and prepared to leave the house. She soon reappeared with a bag, which Marsh took from her. A few minutes later they parted at the desk of the Monmouth Hotel, and Marsh returned to his apartment.

It was strange how lonely the place seemed, 'now that he knew the girl was no longer under the same roof with him.



CHAPTER XII

MISSING

Two days had passed without any word from Morgan, and Marsh himself had made little progress on the case, for a large part of those two days had been taken up in assisting Jane Atwood to pack her personal things and remove them to her new home in the hotel.

They had been pleasant days for Marsh, because he had derived considerable happiness from the little services he had been able to render the girl, and also because it was the first time in all the months he had been watching over her that he was actually in her company.

During this time Marsh had made one discovery of a peculiar nature, but its working out appeared to have no particular effect on the developments of the case. The morning after he escorted Jane Atwood to the hotel, she had returned to the apartment to begin her packing. While assisting in this, Marsh had suggested that she notify the man from whom her father had rented the apartment, so that he could take steps to secure another tenant. He was amazed to learn that she knew nothing whatever about the matter, not even the name of the man from whom they rented. So during the morning, Marsh called at the office of the agent of the building and explained the situation. The agent was surprised, saying that he had always supposed a Mr. Crocker, whose name appeared on the lease, occupied the apartment himself. The man's name not appearing in the telephone directory, the agent had suggested that he would write to the man's former St. Louis address. Marsh thought this a good idea, and owing to the odd situation which had developed, left his telephone number, suggesting that the agent let him know what he heard in the matter.

The next afternoon, the real estate agent telephoned him that a telegram had just arrived from the man in St. Louis, stating that he had never rented any such apartment in Chicago, had never signed any lease, and did not know anything about the matter. To Marsh, the situation was obvious. In renting the apartment Atwood had used the name of a well known St. Louis man so as to have good references and close the deal quietly without in any way bringing his own name and personality into the matter. There was nothing in this information to help the case in any way, yet it created a strange situation. Here was an apartment full of furniture that rightfully belonged to the girl, and yet he could in no way convince her of that fact without also disclosing the other circumstances connected with the case. All that they could do was to walk out and close the door behind them, leaving the problem to the real estate agent to solve. This they did on Friday afternoon, and so far as Marsh was concerned, the Atwood apartment was of no further interest, for it was obvious, now that Atwood was supposed to be dead, no one connected with him would be likely to ever again visit the apartment. He decided, however, to remain in his own apartment for the present. The lease he had signed had still nearly a year to run. He was comfortable, and free to come and go as he pleased, without anyone noticing his movements. Then there was no telling how long he would have to remain in Chicago, for he felt that the solution of this case still rested somewhere within the city limits. At the present moment he was facing a blank wall, but any day or hour might furnish a new clue that would set things moving again. In fact, he was inclined to feel that when he again heard from Morgan, the detective would probably have valuable information for him.

It was Saturday morning, and Marsh, on his way back from breakfast at the little waffle shop, purchased a copy of the Tribune and went back to his apartment to look over the day's news. No sooner had he opened the paper than this headline met his eyes:

PROMINENT BROKER MISSING

Marsh dropped the paper on his knees and thought for a moment. Ever since Tuesday morning, when the trouble had occurred, he had carefully scanned the papers for reports of any missing people who might in any way be connected with this occurrence. Here at last was an announcement that looked promising. He began to read the article.

Richard Townsend Merton, the well known La Salle Street broker, has been missing far ten days, it was learned yesterday. Gilbert Hunt, the general manager of the Merton business, notified the police that Mr. Merton had not appeared at his office, his clubs, or his hotel for some days. A telegraphed inquiry to his wife, who resides with an invalid son in Arizona, brought the reply that Mr. Merton had not been there. The manager is inclined to believe that Mr. Merton has either wandered away during a lapse of memory, or may have met with an accident.

The article then continued with the usual outline of what the police were doing, and a description of the broker's life and habits. Marsh learned from this that Merton had closed his country home in Hubbard Woods when his wife moved to Arizona with their son. He had lived for the past two years at a downtown hotel, and spent most of his evenings at his clubs.

After reading the entire article carefully, Marsh cut out the accompanying photographs of Merton and the absent wife and son. Here was something worth investigating, he thought, for he remembered the cuff button with the initial "M," which Morgan had discovered.

For upwards of an hour Marsh sat in deep deliberation, figuring how he could get in close touch with the situation without in any way disclosing his official connection or real interest in the matter. At last he decided to follow a plan which he had used successfully in connection with two previous cases. He looked up the address of the Merton offices, and putting on his coat and hat, took the Sheridan Road motor bus downtown.

Marsh located the Merton offices on the fifteenth floor of the La Salle Trust Building, and paused a moment inside the door to look the place over. He found himself in a large room which contained several stenographers and clerks. To his left was a grill work with a window marked, "Cashier," and beyond this, several men who were evidently bookkeepers. In front of him was a railing, behind which sat a girl at a telephone switchboard. At the other side of the room, floors opened into what were evidently three private offices. On the first door he saw the name, Mr. Merton; on the second, Mr. Hunt. The third door was blank.

Approaching the girl, Marsh inquired if Mr. Hunt was in.

"Yes," she replied, looking him over. "Have you a card?"

Marsh handed her a card and she went into Mr. Hunt's office. In a moment she returned and said, "Please step in."

Marsh entered Hunt's office and closed the door behind him. It was the usual private office, with a large flat top desk in the center. This was so arranged that Hunt's back was to the light, which fell full upon any visitor's face. Some files, a bookcase, and a small table littered with papers, stood against the wall. Hunt motioned to a chair and said, "Sit down, please." Marsh's card lay before him on the desk. He picked it up and read:

GORDON MARSH Private Investigator

Then looking at Marsh as he laid the card down, he said, "what can I do for you?"

"As you see by my card," replied Marsh, "my business consists of conducting special private investigations. I read in the morning paper that Mr. Merton is missing, and I came in to see if you would care to use my services."

"I have placed the entire matter in the hands of the police," returned Hunt.

"You probably know, as well as I do, Mr. Hunt, that that is the next thing to burying the matter. They will be very busy for a couple of days and then forget it."

"That is about what I thought, Mr. Marsh," admitted Hunt.

"But isn't it important, for business reasons, that you ascertain definitely, and as quickly as possible, just what has happened to Mr. Merton?" Marsh asked.

"To a certain extent, yes. But Mr. Merton has left the business entirely in my hands for some time, and things will continue satisfactorily in his absence."

"Then I presume you wouldn't care to have me conduct a private investigation on your behalf, Mr. Hunt?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Marsh," said Hunt. "Until you presented your card to me this morning, the thought of doing anything beside notifying the police had not occurred to me. Let me think for a minute."

With that, Hunt swung his chair around so that his back was toward Marsh, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window for a few minutes.

"In your work," he said at length, swinging around toward Marsh once more, "you probably come into more or less close contact with the police. I mean by that, that you would work with them more or less on a case of this kind."

"Certainly," replied Marsh. "I follow up every likely clue, including everything which may be unearthed by the police."

"After thinking it over, it may be that we can come to some arrangement, Mr. Marsh," said Hunt. "What are your terms?"

"My charges are $25.00 a day, and expenses," said Marsh.

"Whew!" whistled Hunt, "that's pretty steep. I could hire all the private detectives I wanted for ten dollars a day."

"But I'm not a regular detective," protested Marsh. "I'm an investigator."

"You make a distinction, do you?" smiled Hunt.

"Absolutely," asserted Marsh. "I merely dig up the facts and turn them over to you for any action you see fit. My investigative work could hardly be classed with the ordinary work of the detective."

Hunt clasped his hands before him on the desk. After a moment's thought, he said, "All right, Marsh, I'm going to engage you. See what you can discover, and report to me whenever you think you are making progress. Incidentally, keep your eye on the police and see what they are doing. As long as you are working on this job for me, it will be curious to see just how effective our police really are. Now, I suppose you want to ask some questions."

"Yes," said Marsh, "one or two; although as a rule I prefer to start with my mind as free as possible. Mr. Merton has been living at the LaSalle Hotel, I understand?"

"Yes."

"How long has he been living there?"

"Two years."

"I suppose I can find out something of his habits there."

"I think I get your drift, Marsh," said Hunt, with a smile. "I can assure you from my personal knowledge, that Mr. Merton has led a very quiet and most exemplary life. Practically all his evenings have been passed at the University and Chicago Athletic Clubs, and I believe that occasionally he dropped into the Hamilton Club, of which he is a member."

"Why did his wife go to Arizona?" inquired Marsh.

"The boy has weak lungs and the doctors said his life could be saved only by several years' residence in the Arizona climate. Mrs. Merton worships the boy and insisted upon going with him. They have been there two years."

"When do you expect them back?" asked Marsh.

"I understand the boy is not much better. It might be years before they return, unless the boy should die."

Marsh thought a moment, then said, "You mentioned before that the business could go on without Mr. Merton. I presume he has given you power of attorney?"

"Yes," said Hunt.

"In case of his death, Mr. Hunt, who would be his executors?"

"I cannot see that that has any bearing on the case."

"Perhaps not," said Marsh, "but I am following a line of thought."

"Well," returned Hunt, "if it's of any use to you, I may say that I will be the sole executor."

"It was a very wise move on your part to employ me in this matter, Mr. Hunt, in view of that fact."

"How so?" inquired Hunt.

"Because to the outsider it might appear that you had some personal interest in Mr. Merton's disappearance. You know, sometimes the police are stupidly suspicious."

Hunt sat up with a start. "You have given me food for thought, Marsh," he said. "I hadn't looked at the matter in that light before."

"Well," returned Marsh, "you can now see that my investigations and reports will be of the utmost value to you. Furthermore, as you have already suggested, I can keep my ear to the ground where the police are concerned, and keep you advised of what is going on."

"Mr. Marsh," said Hunt, rising. "I am very glad you came in to see me. You can count upon my keeping you on this job until everything is settled."

"One more question," said Marsh, also rising. "I noticed a mention of Mr. Merton's country house. Has anyone looked to see if Mr. Merton could by any chance have gone there because of illness, or for some other reason?"

"I know positively he is not there," Hunt replied. "I keep a caretaker on the premises, and occasionally look over the place myself to make sure that everything is all right. The caretaker assures me that Mr. Merton has not been near the place since he closed the house two years ago."

"One thing more, Mr. Hunt, before I go. People sometimes question my right to investigate. Will you give me a line stating that I am authorized to represent you in this matter?"

"Certainly." Hunt sat down at his desk and hastily penned a few lines on a sheet of letter paper, which he then handed to Marsh.

Marsh carefully folded the paper, placed it in his pocket-book, and bidding Hunt good day, went out.



CHAPTER XIII

STARTLING DISCLOSURES

"Why is it that business men, who pride themselves on their astuteness, almost invariably slip up somewhere?" thought Marsh, as he left the La Salle Trust Building and walked north on La Salle Street. This thought was occasioned by the fact that Hunt had neglected to ask Marsh for his address and telephone number. It might be, of course, that the man had taken it for granted that his name and address would be readily found in the telephone directory. Though this explanation passed through his mind, he was more inclined to believe that Hunt's intense interest in the matter, or possibly a newly aroused fear, created by Marsh's reference to the peculiar attitude in which he was placed, had driven the subject of details, out of Hunt's mind.

Marsh had come downtown with the intention of giving his present address, but as the interview progressed, a feeling grew upon him that it might be just as well, at this time, to give some downtown business address. The fact that no inquiry had been made on this point relieved him of the necessity of giving a fictitious address on the spur of the moment. His next step, however, must be the securing of such an address, for it was beyond question that during his next interview with Hunt this information would have to be given.

Marsh glanced over his shoulder at the great clock in the Board of Trade Building, which keeps guard over La Salle Street. It was just twelve o'clock, and he reasoned that the people he contemplated questioning would probably be going to lunch. He decided to spend the next hour, therefore, in securing some sort of office address. By this time he had reached Madison Street, and turning east, looked over the buildings as he passed along, with the idea of selecting one in which a temporary office might be secured. At the corner of Madison Street and Wabash Avenue, he stopped and looked around him. On one corner was the building of a great department store. On the other three corners, big office buildings towered above him. At this corner also here was one of the Madison Street stations of the elevated railroad system. Certainly, it was a most logical location for a man in his supposed line of work, so he entered one of the buildings, approached the starter in front of the elevators, and inquired if he knew anyone who would rent desk room. The starter furnished him with the names and room numbers of two places where he might inquire. The first of these which he visited proved satisfactory. He arranged with the young woman in charge to receive all mail and telephone calls for him and forward these to his regular address. Making a note of the telephone number, he paid two month's rent in advance so as to get the matter off his mind, and returned to the street. The details of this arrangement had taken but a short time, so Marsh went up to the men's grill maintained by a nearby department store, intending to eat a leisurely luncheon in one of the secluded booths.

As he sat studying the menu, a small finger suddenly began to direct his attention to certain items, while a soft voice whispered in his ear, "How do you do, Mr. Marsh?"

In work such as his, startling things were apt to occur at any moment, so Marsh gave no outward indication of his surprise.

"How do you do," he returned, without looking up, but his mind was working rapidly to place the voice.

"What are you doing here?" the voice asked.

"You know better than to ask that question, Miss Allen." Marsh now glanced up with a smile.

The waitress stood up, and to anyone across the room it would have appeared as if they were merely discussing his order, which she was writing on a pad.

"If you are still engaged in counterfeiting work," she said, "I may be able to give you a valuable tip."

"All right," said Marsh, "bring me one of those oyster pies and a cup of coffee. We'll have a chat when you come back."

In a few minutes she was back with his order and talked rapidly in a guarded voice as she placed the silver on the table and arranged his dishes.

"About this time yesterday I had four men at this table and caught snatches of their conversation. I put the facts together about like this: There is a house in the suburbs, near Chicago, where a counterfeiting plant has been in operation. In some way the attention of the police has been attracted, and the whole outfit is to be cleaned out as soon as they think they can get away safely. I have no idea regarding the location, but if you are looking anything up this may be a hint for you."

"Thanks, Miss Allen. It is a hint."

Without further words, she hurried away to attend to another table.

Marsh knew that the girl who had just given him this information was a Government operative, like himself. He would have liked to learn more, if possible, especially descriptions of the men, but he did not know the nature of the work she was engaged in, and feared that any further contact between them might be unwise. For a moment he thought of slipping her his telephone number, but the cautiousness bred by years of experience warned him that telephones, like walls, sometimes have ears. However, he realized that she had told him something worth while. It was unlikely that there was more than one counterfeiting band in Chicago at this time. She had given him a clue, which, like the cuff button, might tie up at any moment with some other developments. Moreover, he now knew that his men were planning to get away and that something must be done in a hurry. After finishing his luncheon he wrote his newly acquired downtown address on a slip of paper, wrapped it in a bill, and then signaled to the girl that he desired his check. He handed her the bill carelessly, and said in a low voice, without looking up, "Something inside for you." She returned in a moment with his change, and as she laid it on the table, said simply, "I understand." Marsh then started out on his search for information regarding Merton.

While Marsh was confident that he would get, the most important part of his information at the hotel where Merton had lived, he decided to work up to that point rather than start there. One reason for this decision lay in the fact that night employees of the hotel could probably give him more valuable information regarding Merton's movements than those on duty during the day. He was only a block from Michigan Avenue, where the clubs at which Merton spent most of his time were located. At these places he secured little information that would further his quest. Merton had impressed the employees of the clubs simply as a quiet man who had dropped in to read his newspaper or book, or have quiet chats with other members with whom he was acquainted. Occasionally he was known to engage in a game of billiards or cards. It was hardly the life of a man who could have such close associations with a gang of counterfeiters as to draw upon himself an act of revenge or the necessity of removing him as a matter of protection. So far as Marsh could discover, Merton had never presented a questionable bill to the clubs. In fact, so far as anyone connected with them could recollect, all payments of any character had been made by check. Marsh had pursued inquiries along this line, because, while almost anyone is liable at one time or another, to be in possession of counterfeit money, such a happening in Merton's case might have possessed unusual significance. It was Marsh's desire to ascertain, so far as possible, if there had been any connection of even a remote character, between Merton and the counterfeiters. Unless some such connection were established, it would be hard to believe that Merton had been the Sheridan Road victim. Yet the coincidences of this disappearance, the evidences of a crime, and the cuff button initialed "M," possessed too strong a significance to be entirely disregarded.

At the third club Marsh secured practically no information. Merton had been an infrequent visitor and had made little or no impression upon the employees.

Walking north on Dearborn Street and across Madison Street, on his way from this club to Merton's hotel, Marsh thought quickly. If he could not at this time establish a connection, then at least he would try to ascertain the nature of the bait which had been held out to take this man of quiet habits to the North Side at two o'clock in the morning.

On reaching the hotel he found that it was still too early to interview the people he wished to see, so he sat down in one of the big chair in the lobby to pass the time studying the aspects of the case.

Even when his mind was busy, Marsh's eyes were on the alert, and faces met under the most trivial circumstances, photographed themselves upon his memory. His eyes rested casually upon a man who sat opposite him, looking over an evening paper. Gradually Marsh began to feel that the face was familiar. With this realization came the recollection that the man had seated himself very quickly after Marsh had selected his chair. Perhaps his recognition of the face was something that came out of the past, but Marsh always endeavored to connect every noticeable incident with the problem of the moment. It was not long, therefore, before he had placed the man. On coming out of the office building where he had made his temporary address arrangements, he had passed this man standing near the door and also remembered seeing the same man in the grill room where he had lunched. The fact that the man was now seated near him in the hotel lobby was more than a coincidence. Marsh's eyes roved about the lobby with apparently careless interest, and not even the man across from him could have guessed that he had noted anything or become more watchful than before. However, he was planning action. If this man was watching him there could be but one reason—his connection with the present case. If he was connected with this case then he was evidently one of the men they wanted. Marsh intended to be sure.

To change the situation from watched to watcher would involve some quick and clever work. Marsh pondered.

As the bell boy passed Marsh called to him, Slipping a coin into the boy's hand, he said, "I had an appointment here with a Mr. Morgan. See if you can locate him." As the boy started off, calling the name, Marsh watched the man opposite out of the corner of his eye. The man threw down his newspaper, stretched and yawned, while his eyes wandered about the lobby. His movements were of a very casual sort, but to Marsh's watchful eye it was noticeable that his glances were actually following the bell boy seeking Morgan. Marsh was now convinced that his actions were under surveillance, and he next planned how to throw the man off. As he sat intent on this problem, he was startled to heap the bell boy say, "Here's the gentleman, sir," and looking up, Marsh saw Morgan standing in front of him.

The training of both men forbade any indication of the astonishment both felt, but looking into the other's eyes, each read the question there. Marsh jumped up, and holding out his hand, exclaimed boisterously, "Where have you been hiding yourself? I'd about given you up."

"I'm sorry I am late," apologized Morgan, in an equally loud voice, taking the cue. He pulled an adjoining chair close to Marsh and sat down.

"Now," said Marsh, in a low voice, "it is probably needless to tell you not to make your observation too obvious, but I want to call your attention to the man sitting opposite."

Morgan nodded.

"He has been following me all the afternoon," continued Marsh, in the same guarded voice. "As long as I sit here I surmise that he will stay where he is. That will give you time to slip out, pick up one of your men, and get him on the job. I suspect it will be worth while getting a line on him."

"That's easy," returned Morgan. "I'll have him locked up inside of the next ten minutes."

"No," said Marsh, "that would be taking too big a chance."

"On. the contrary," said Morgan, "it would be taking no chance at all. That man has been wanted for a year for putting over a confidence game. I won't mention any names because lips sometimes tell stories to watchful eyes. You just sit here and you'll see something in a few minutes." With that, Morgan went out.

A few minutes later a man strolled through the lobby and approached the stranger. He leaned over and whispered to him and the two went out together. Marsh was congratulating himself that when this man got to Headquarters he might be made to talk to some effect, when Morgan and another man, whom Marsh easily recognized as a detective, approached.

"Where in blazes did your man go?" exclaimed Morgan.

Marsh stared for a moment. "Why I thought your man got him," he said. "Somebody came in and quietly took him out."

"Good-night!" exclaimed Morgan. "Somebody must have tipped him off." He turned to the man with him. "No use hanging around now. Our bird's flown."

As the man left them Morgan sat down again beside Marsh. "How the deuce did you know I was here?" he asked.

"I didn't," returned Marsh. "I had that bell boy page you to test the man across from me. I never had such a surprise in my life as when you turned up. What were you doing here?" he added.

"The Chief asked me to look into this Merton case. What were YOU doing here?"

"The same thing," replied Marsh.

"Looking up Merton?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's funny. What for?"

"Because I strongly suspect he is the murdered man in our case."

Morgan gasped.



CHAPTER XIV

THE NIGHT CALL

As Morgan recovered from his astonishment, Marsh anticipated some leading questions. He headed these off at this time, by saying, "In this case, conditions seem to be somewhat reversed; for up to this time we have found practically no one who could be put under surveillance, yet we have every evidence that we are being carefully watched by others. Several incidents have occurred, including the present little drama which convinces us of that fact. There is no question that we should again compare notes as soon as possible, but this is a dangerous place to discuss the case. I came here to question certain people. As they will not be on duty until later there is nothing I can do along that line for a little while. In the meantime, we ought to look over Merton's rooms upstairs. I could not make an attempt to do this, because I do not possess the proper authority without explaining my real connections. You, however, as a city detective engaged on the case, will have no difficulty in making arrangements to inspect his room."

"That is just what I dropped in to do," replied Morgan.

"Then go ahead and make your arrangements," said Marsh, "and when you are ready, let me go up with you. If we meet anyone, remember that I am working under the special authorization of Mr. Hunt, and you and I have just become acquainted."

Morgan went to the hotel office. In a few minutes he returned with a bell boy and nodded to Marsh. Guided by the bell boy, they took an elevator and ascended to Merton's rooms, which they found consisted of a sitting room, bedroom and bath. Obeying instructions, the bell boy at once retired and closed the door after him.

They first inspected the bedroom, giving special attention to the dresser. This contained nothing save the usual supply of clothing, which served no other purpose than to indicate the wealth and conservative taste of the owner. Marsh particularly sought some jewelry that might help to identify the cuff button as the property of the lost man. He found nothing, however, and considered it probable that whatever jewelry Merton owned was on his person.

From the bedroom the two men went to the sitting room, which they hoped would hold greater possibilities, for a desk stood in one corner near a window. A framed photograph of Merton's wife and son, standing on top of the desk, of course had no significance. They then began a search of the drawers and the interior of the desk.

"Probably you have noticed," said Marsh, after a moment, "the disordered condition of this desk."

"Now that you speak of it," agreed Morgan, "I think it is pretty well mussed up."

"I should say," commented Marsh, "that either Merton is very careless, or else we are not the first people to examine this desk."

"Probably the desk has been gone over, Marsh," acceded Morgan. "But you must remember that Merton has been known to be missing for several days and hotel employees, even under ordinary circumstances, are apt to be curious. The point is worth remembering, but I doubt if it is of any importance."

One by one, they examined various letters and papers. A few touched on business subjects, but the majority were of a personal nature. Most of these were from Merton's wife; the others from business men whose well known names placed them beyond suspicion. In one corner of the desk Morgan picked up a sheet containing some notations regarding bond purchases. Beneath this he found a black, leather-covered notebook of a size that would conveniently fit into a vest pocket. One glance into this and Morgan gave an exclamation. "See here!" he cried, calling Marsh's attention to the book. "This notebook has been kept in cipher. These combinations of letters and figures mean absolutely nothing as they stand."

The two men slowly turned the pages, but as Morgan had stated, the matter which the book contained conveyed nothing to them.

"That looks as if Merton had something to conceal, Marsh."

"On the face of it—yes," returned Marsh. "But just glance at this sheet which covered the notebook. From its subject matter I should be inclined to believe that it represented Merton's handwriting."

Morgan nodded and Marsh went on.

"Now, when you come to look at this notebook, even a hasty glance shows a difference in the handwriting. In. fact, now that my attention has been drawn to it, there is really a marked difference."

"Well?" queried Morgan.

"Offhand," returned Marsh, "I would say, that somebody has been keeping a secret record. That person sat at this desk making additional notes. In a moment of forgetfulness, or perhaps the necessity of hasty concealment, the notebook was placed under this sheet and later overlooked. There is a possibility that this notebook was left by the person who preceded us at this desk."

Morgan took the notebook and examined it carefully for a few minutes. "In my work," he said, "I have several times run up against ciphers of various kinds. This is unlike anything I ever saw before, and looks as if it would be mighty hard to unravel."

Marsh again took the book and after carefully examining it, said, "I don't pretend to be a cipher expert. In fact, I never waste time on it. We have men both here and at Washington who can read this sort of stuff backward. I'll send this book to them and we'll soon get a key to the cipher."

At this moment, both men became silent and alert. Someone was slipping a key into the lock of the door. Marsh quickly dropped the notebook into the side pocket of his coat. A moment later the door swung open and Gilbert Hunt entered.

He stopped with a start of surprise, but quickly recovered himself.

"You gentlemen gave me a shock!" he exclaimed. "I didn't expect to find anyone here. Already on the job, Mr. Marsh?" he added.

"Yes," returned Marsh, easily. "I never lose any time, and this room naturally should be looked over."

"And this gentleman with you?" questioned Hunt.

"Detective Sergeant Morgan—Mr. Hunt," introduced Marsh. "Morgan is conducting the police investigation." Then he added, with a wink at Hunt. "We met downstairs and I thought we might as well look things over at the same time."

"I see," said Hunt, smiling. "Have you discovered anything?"

"Nothing to which I can attach any great importance at this time," replied Marsh.

"I thought I would come up and look things over," explained Hunt, as he strolled over to the desk and ran his fingers through the papers. The two men watched him with keen attention.

"Seems to be nothing here outside of personal correspondence," said Hunt, turning around.

"Yes," Morgan answered, "those letters appear to be of a very ordinary character. As far as I can see, there is nothing there that would help us."

"I presume you are working along other lines also?" inquired Hunt.

"Surely," said Morgan. "We have several men on the case now."

"And what have you found, Mr. Marsh?" inquired Hunt.

"Nothing that gives me a lead so far. I will report to you as soon as anything comes to light."

"Better come to my home some evening," Hunt suggested. "We can talk in greater privacy than at the office. You will find my address in the telephone directory. By the way, I believe you neglected to give me your address this morning, and I do not find your name in the telephone book."

"That's right," exclaimed Marsh. "I believe I did neglect to do that." Marsh went over to the desk, tore off the corner of a sheet of paper, and wrote down his new address and telephone number. "Here it is," he said, handing the paper to Hunt. "My name would not be in the telephone book as my work necessitates frequent changes of address. One month I am liable to be in California and the next in Europe. For the present, however, you will be able to get word to me at the address I have given you. Naturally, I will seldom be there, but you can always leave word for me to get in touch with you." Then Marsh turned to Morgan. "We'd better be moving along," he said.

"Yes," agreed Morgan, "there's nothing more to be gained here."

After exchanging a few commonplace words with Hunt, the two detectives went out, leaving Hunt in the room. Downstairs, in the lobby, Marsh said, "I strongly suspect that Hunt wanted to be left alone in that room. That's why I hurried you away. The sooner he gets through up there, the quicker he will leave the hotel. I don't want him around while I am looking up the rest of my information. Now, you watch the Madison Street entrance, while I stand across the street on La Salle. When he leaves, the one that sees him will let the other know."

The two men then separated and took up their watch.

Hunt must have made a careful examination of Merton's rooms, because it was not until a half hour later that Morgan rejoined Marsh and informed him that he had seen Hunt enter his automobile on Madison Street and drive away.

"Morgan," said Marsh. "I want to have a talk with you after I get through here. Suppose I come to your apartment tonight?"

"Fine!" agreed Morgan. "I have some information to give you. I'll run up to Headquarters now, make a report, and go right home. You will find me there whenever you are ready."

"And here is a suggestion, Morgan. When either of us calls on the other, the signal will be three knocks on the door instead of pushing the electric bell. I have a suspicion that answering a bell these days will have to be conducted with caution."

"Perhaps you are right," said Morgan. "I'll remember."

Morgan then walked on up La Salle Street, while Marsh crossed over and entered the hotel once more. There was now only one person who might give him a really definite lead—the night telephone operator—and he went straight to her switchboard. Marsh knew that this young woman was probably overfed with smooth talk, so he counted upon getting better results by going straight to the point.

"Good evening," he said. "You are the night operator here, are you not?"

The young woman, who was arranging things before her in a way that indicated she had but recently come on duty, replied in the affirmative.

"Do you remember Mr. Merton, who has been reported missing?" asked Marsh.

"I should say I do," exclaimed the girl. "An awfully nice man. He appreciated good service. Every Saturday night he gave me a box of candy."

"Read this," said Marsh, handing her his authorization from Hunt.

"Oh, I hope you do find out something," said the girl, as she returned the paper to Marsh. "I'd just hate to think anything serious had happened to Mr. Merton."

"All right," answered Marsh, "then you'll be willing to help me?"

"What can I do?" she inquired.

"Mr. Merton's kindness to you made an impression upon you, did it not?" Marsh asked.

The girl nodded.

"Then you would naturally recollect anything of an unusual nature which might have taken place during the last few days, would you not?"

"Yes... I think so," returned the girl, somewhat guardedly.

"A telephone call late at night?" suggested Marsh.

The girl was busy with her switchboard for a time. Then she leaned back and looked at Marsh. "See here," she said, "I'd do most anything to help find that man, but I can't take a chance on losing my job."

Marsh now knew that he was going to get important information if he handled the matter diplomatically.

"Remember," he explained, confidentially, "I am not a regular detective. I have nothing to do with the city police department. There will be no publicity attached to anything I learn. I am merely looking up confidential information for Mr. Hunt, who, as you know, has charge of Mr. Merton's business."

The girl was again busy at the switchboard, and when at last there came a pause, she looked carefully around to see that no one else was within ear shot. Then she leaned toward Marsh.

"He got a telephone message at twelve o'clock on Monday night," she whispered.

"You mean last Monday?" questioned Marsh. He recollected that Merton had been reported missing for ten days.

The girl nodded.

"Of course, at that hour," suggested Marsh, "you were not very busy and would therefore be likely to listen in on the wire."

"The very idea!" she exclaimed, indignantly.

"Look here," said Marsh. "If I can rescue Merton from the predicament he is probably in, someone will be handsomely rewarded. Is it not a safe bet that the person who gives me the correct information to put me on the right track, will be pretty well taken care of?"

The girl sat in thoughtful silence.

"And if Mr. Merton should happen to be dead, Mrs. Merton would be very grateful, indeed, to anyone who had helped her learn the truth," Marsh added.

Again the girl looked cautiously about. The hint of an ample reward was having its effect.

"If I lose my job..." she warned, and then again leaned toward Marsh. "I listened in, all right. It was a man who said his name was Nolan. From what I heard I think he used to be a chauffeur for Mr. Merton. He said he was in an awful hole, that he was unjustly accused of theft, and that they were about to lock him up. He asked Mr. Merton if he could do anything to keep him out of this disgrace. Mr. Merton said he would try and asked where he was. Nolan said he was being detained in the apartment of a man named Ames, at some place on Sheridan Road—I forget the exact number."

"Did Mr. Merton go there then, do you know?"

"I couldn't tell you that. He simply said, 'All right,' and hung up the receiver."

"You have given me just the information I needed," said Marsh. "Your job is in no danger if you let this matter rest just between us two. If anyone else should question you, you don't know anything. And above all, forget about me. You get the idea?"

"You bet!" replied the girl, as she turned again to her switchboard.

Marsh left the hotel, well satisfied with his progress. It was now fairly well established that Richard Townsend Merton was the victim of Clark Atwood.



CHAPTER XV

"DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES"

Up to this time the case had seemed one of the most mysterious with which Marsh had ever had to deal. Now, however, while elements of mystery still remained, he had certain definite clues upon which to work. The little notebook in his pocket might prove to be a key that would unlock the final barrier. The most important thing before him now, therefore, was to secure a solution to the cipher. It was of too important a nature to trust to the mails so Marsh decided to put it directly into official hands. He glanced at his watch. It was after six, and being Saturday, it was likely that these men had left their offices in the Federal Building. At the same time, this was a very busy branch of the Government and it was just possible that someone might be lingering late. Marsh decided to take a chance.

It had been clearly impressed upon him by this time that he was no longer free to come and go unnoticed. At this very moment there might be a pair of eyes somewhere in that hurrying throng on La Salle Street ready to follow his every move. However much they might suspect him, his exact status in the case was probably still a puzzle to them. He did not believe it safe as yet to betray his connection with the Government. The problem then was to reach the Federal Building without being followed.

Marsh called a taxi, and loudly giving an address on the South Side, was whirled away. Taking out a bill, he laid it on the seat. In a couple of blocks the taxi was held up for a moment by traffic and Marsh stepped hastily out and softly closed the door. He dashed up the street, turned down an alleyway, and half way down the block turned again through another alley that brought him to a different street. In these dark, deserted byways he could have instantly detected any attempt to follow him. A few minutes later he entered the Federal Building, quite sure that any possible pursuers had been thrown off the trail.

He found a hard working official still in his office, and showing his credentials and explaining the object of his visit, Marsh turned over the notebook. Then he slipped out of the Federal Building, and went to a nearby restaurant to get his dinner. After dinner he proceeded by devious routes to keep his appointment with Morgan. Climbing to Morgan's apartment, Marsh gave three raps, the signal agreed upon.

Tierney opened the door, but after an exchange of greetings, put on his cap and passed out into the hall to stand guard.

"Both of us must have important information," said Morgan. "Which of us, shall tell it first?"

"Let me hear your story first," returned Marsh.

"All right," agreed Morgan. "Here goes. My chief information lies in the fact that we now have two men who are undoubtedly connected with Atwood. Both of these men are known to the police, and once we get our eyes on them they will probably lead us to the men we want. It is only a question of hours, perhaps, because every man on the force now has their descriptions and will keep his eyes open. The first of these is Wagner, the man you saw in the hotel lobby. The other is the man who attacked Miss Atwood. With her description in mind, Tierney and I looked over the photographs at Headquarters. We picked out a man known as 'Baldy' Newman as best answering the description. I took a copy of the photograph to Miss Atwood at her hotel, and while she was not sure, she said it was enough like the man she saw to be the same person. Now, this 'Baldy' Newman is a well known West Side gunman, and we know his usual hangouts. He's a little bit of a shrimp, but an expert with his gun, and therefore a dangerous customer to handle, so Tierney and I were mighty vigilant. We found, however, that for nearly two years he has shown up only twice at his old hangouts. That time ties up in a significant way with your story, Marsh. The last time was early on Monday night, when he showed a roll of money and boasted that he was going to pull off a real job that night. We got this from the bartender, who was mighty sore at 'Baldy.' It seems that our friend had slipped a five dollar bill off his roll to pay for drinks for the crowd, and the bartender still has this bill as a souvenir. IT WAS A COUNTERFEIT. Of course, there's enough in all that to positively tie 'Baldy' up with our case, even if Miss Atwood had not been fairly confident of her identification."

"Now," continued Morgan. "Here's some stuff I brought for you. Sooner or later I believe you can make use of it." Morgan handed some photographs to Marsh, which he explained as Marsh looked them over.

"The first," he said, "is a photograph of 'Baldy' Newman. He's a good man for you to keep your eye out for, because if he ever shot first it would be all day with you. The second photograph is of Wagner. You have already seen him, but this picture will fix him more firmly in your mind. The next photograph is the one our man made of Atwood's letter. Of course, the letter doesn't tell us much, but the handwriting may. That last photograph is of the hand marks on the dining room table in the Ames apartment. Ordinarily, marks of that kind would tell very little. Our finger print expert, however, called my attention to the fact that there is a scar on the right hand. Of course, a scar in that position might be found on many hands, but if you look carefully at that photograph you will see that the scar forms a sort of acute angle. It is, therefore, not an ordinary scar. The man whose hand we find it on is pretty sure to be one of the men who was in the Ames apartment that night."

"High class crooks like Atwood, while they work alone, are often hard to get, but sooner or later they grow ambitious. They want to be the brains of an organization. Then they call in second-rate crooks like 'Baldy' and Wagner, to do the dirty work. These men are never so clever, and some day, through them, the police get their hands on the man higher up. I think, Marsh, that in this case that is what we are going to do."

"You have done well, Morgan," praised Marsh. "I believe on the whole that, while I have secured some valuable information, your work has really brought us the nearest to the man we want."

"That was pretty sharp of you to tie up Merton with the case," commented Morgan. "Of course, when you mentioned it to me I saw its possibilities. Before that I was thrown off the track by the fact that Merton was reported to have been missing for ten days, whereas this supposed crime occurred at two o'clock last Tuesday morning. Why do you suppose that fellow Hunt threw us off like that?"

"Probably he did not do it intentionally," answered Marsh. "Hunt is running the business for Merton, and very likely saw little of him outside of the once. It may have been ten days since Merton had appeared at his office, although only a few days since he was missing from the hotel."

"What made you suspect it in the first place?" inquired Morgan.

"I'll tell you the whole story," said Marsh. "Naturally, I was watching the papers for missing people. When I saw that announcement this morning, and remembered the 'M' on the cuff button, it began to look like a possibility. At any rate, it was worth looking up. To get at the real facts, I knew that I would have to be on the inside, so I presented myself to Hunt this morning as a private investigator who was anxious to get the job of looking up Merton in the interest of his office. I think I got closer to Hunt than any policeman ever would. In fact, I was furnished with inside information that may or may not be significant. This man Hunt holds a power of attorney from Merton, and Merton's will names him as sole executor, Of course, to a criminal investigator that sounds bad on its face. On the other hand, if Hunt possessed such power with Merton there could be no object in his wanting to get him out of the way. Certainly, a man in Hunt's position would not have had dealings with a crook like Atwood. Furthermore, if Hunt did want to make away with Merton, he would more likely do it himself than take the risk of employing others, and so place himself in a position to be blackmailed later. Carrying the thought still further, would a clever man like Atwood take a chance of upsetting his own plans by hiring himself out to Hunt as a common thug?"