For a day or two I moped around, decidedly out of sorts. I didn’t feel sufficiently acquainted with Miss Raynor to call on her, – though she had once asked me to do so, – but I greatly longed to find out if the police had yet acquainted her with their suspicions. I thought perhaps they were waiting for further proofs, or it might be, waiting until after the funeral of Mr. Gately. There had been, so far, nothing in the papers implicating Olive, and I hoped against hope there would not be. But I felt sure she was being closely watched, and I didn’t know what new evidence might be cooking up against her.

The funeral of the great capitalist was on Saturday evening.

I attended, and this being my first visit to the house, I was all unprepared for the wealth of art treasures it held.

I sat in the great salon, lost in admiration of the pictures and bronzes, as well as the beautiful architecture and mural decorations.

A throng of people attended the services and the oppressive fragrance of massed flowers and the continuous click of folding-chairs, combined with the whispers and subdued rustling of the audience, produced that unmistakable funeral atmosphere so trying to sensitive nerves.

Then, a single clear, sweet soprano voice, raised in a solemn anthem, broke the tension, and soon the brief obsequies were over, and I found myself moving along with the crush of people slowly surging toward the door.

I walked home, the clear, frosty air feeling grateful after the crowded rooms.

And I wondered. Wondered what would be the next scene in the awful drama. Would they accuse Miss Raynor, – lovely Olive Raynor, of the crime? How could they? That delicate, high-bred girl!

And yet, she was independent of thought and fearless of action.

Though I knew her but slightly, I had heard more or less about her, and I had learned she was by no means of a yielding or easily swayed disposition. She deeply resented her guardian’s tyrannical treatment of her and had not infrequently told him so. While they were not outwardly at odds, they were uncongenial natures, and of widely divergent tastes.

Olive, as is natural for a young girl, wanted guests and gayety. Mr. Gately, a thoroughly selfish man, preferred quiet and freedom from company. Her insistence met with refusal and the results were often distressing to both of them. In fact, Miss Raynor had threatened to leave her guardian’s home and live by herself, but this by no means suited his convenience. The comfort of his home and the proper administration of his household depended largely on Olive’s capable and efficient management, and without her presence and care he would miss many pleasant details of his daily existence. He rarely allowed her to go away on a visit, and almost never permitted her to have a friend to stay with her.

I learned of these intimate matters from Norah, – who, in turn, had them from Jenny.

Jenny had not been with Mr. Gately long, but she had managed to pick up bits of information regarding his home life with surprising quickness, and when quizzed by the police had told all she knew, – and, I suspected, —more than she knew, – about Miss Raynor.

Now, I don’t suppose the police went so far as to assume that Olive Raynor had killed Mr. Gately because he would not indulge her wishes, but they seemed to think they really had grounds for suspecting.

I was in despair. On Sunday, I could think of nothing but the matter and I wondered if it would be too presumptuous of me to offer Miss Raynor my help or advice. Doubtless she had hordes of advisers, but she might need such a legal friend as I could be to her.

On the impulse, I telephoned and asked if she cared to see me. To my delighted surprise she welcomed the suggestion and begged me to call that afternoon, as she had real need of legal advice.

And so four o’clock found me again at the house of the late president of the Trust Company.

This time I was shown to a small reception room, where Olive soon appeared.

“It’s this way, Mr. Brice,” she said after a few moments’ conversation. “I don’t like Mr. Pond, – he’s Uncle’s lawyer, – I just can’t bear the man!”

“For any definite reason, Miss Raynor?” I asked.

“N – no, – well, that is – oh, he’s a horrid old thing, and he wants to marry me!”

“Are you quite sure you want to confide these personal matters to me?” I felt I ought to say this, for the girl was nervously excited, and I was by no means sure she would not later regret her outspokenness.

“Yes, I do. I want a lawyer, Mr. Brice, and I will not have Mr. Pond. So I ask you here and now to take my affairs in charge, look after my financial matters, and advise me in many ways when I need your help. You may suppose I have many friends,” – the big brown eyes were pathetically imploring, “but I haven’t. Uncle Amos, – of course, you know he was not my uncle, but I called him that, – would not allow me to make many friends and his own acquaintances are all elderly people and he hadn’t very many of those. My money is in my own right. Mr. Gately was punctilious in his care of my accounts, – and I want it all taken out of the hands of Mr. Pond and transferred to your care. This can be done, of course.”

Olive looked imperious and seemed to think the matter all settled.

“Doubtless it can be arranged, Miss Raynor; I will consider it.”

“Don’t consider, – just say yes! If you don’t I must hunt up another lawyer, and – I’d rather have you.”

I wasn’t proof against her pretty, dictatorial ways, and I agreed to take the steps she desired.

She went on to tell me how she was placed:

Not only in possession of a considerable fortune of her own, Amos Gately’s will left her a goodly additional sum, and also the house in which they had lived.

“So you see,” Olive said, “I shall continue to live here, – for the present. I have Mrs. Vail now with me, – as a duenna, for propriety’s sake. She is a dear old lady, and is of a pliable, manageable sort. I chose her for that reason, largely. Also, she is pleasant and cheerful, and I like to have her about. I was fond of Uncle Amos, Mr. Brice, but we had many dissensions. If he had allowed me a little more freedom, I could have got along with him beautifully, – but he treated me as a child. You see, he took me to live with him when I was a child, and he never realized that I had grown up and had an individuality and a will of my own. I am twenty-two years old, and he acted as if I were twelve!”

“And now, absolutely your own mistress?”

“Yes; doesn’t it seem strange? And it is all so strange! This house, without him, is like a different house. And the dreadfulness of his death! Sometimes I think I can’t stay here, – I must get into other surroundings. But the thought of moving out of here is too much for me, at present, anyway. Oh, I don’t know what to do! I can’t realize that he is gone!”

Olive did not cry. She sat, dry-eyed and tearless, looking so pathetically lonely and so unable to cope with her new responsibilities, that I gladly promised her all possible assistance that I could give, both in legal matters and in any personal or friendly ways.

“Don’t think me helpless,” she said, reading my thoughts; “I shall rise to the situation, I shall adapt myself to my changed circumstances, but it will take a little time, of course.”

“Yes, indeed,” I agreed, “and don’t attempt to do too much at first. Take plenty of time to rest and to let yourself react from the shock and the awful scenes you have been through.”

It was clear to me that the girl had no thought that she was suspected, or that the police were watching her. I wondered whether it would be kinder to give her a hint of this or to leave her in ignorance, when just then a servant entered, saying Mr. Hudson wished an interview with Miss Raynor.

Hudson! Foxy Jim Hudson! Of course, this could mean but one thing.

“Let me stay!” I said, impulsively, and, “Oh, do!” she returned, and in another minute Hudson came in.

There was something about the man’s manner that I couldn’t help liking and if Olive had to be questioned I felt sure he would do it as gently as anybody could.

Though uncultured, his voice was kindly, and as he put some preliminary questions Olive answered straightforwardly and without objection.

But when he asked her where she had been on the afternoon of Mr. Gately’s death, she looked at him haughtily, and said:

“I told all that to the man who questioned me downtown, – that Mr. Martin.”

“Did you tell him the truth, Miss Raynor?”

“Sir?”

Into the one word, Olive put a world of scornful pride, but I could note also a look of fear in her eyes.

“Now, let me give you a bit of friendly advice,” Hudson said, “you’re a very young lady, and you prob’ly think you can tell a little white falsehood and get away with it, but you can’t do it to the police. You see, miss, we know where you were on Wednesday afternoon, and you may as well be frank about it.”

“Very well, then, where was I?”

“At the house of Mrs. Russell, – the sister of Mr. Manning.”

Olive looked at him in amazement. Then her manner changed.

“Since you know,” she said, “I may as well own up. I was at Mrs. Russell’s. What of it?”

“Only that if you prevaricated in one instance, Miss Raynor, you may have done so in others. Will you tell me why you said you were at the house of your friend, Miss Clark?”

“Of course I will. My guardian was unwilling to have me go to Mrs. Russell’s house, because of a personal matter. Therefore, when I wished to go there I sometimes told him that I was going to Miss Clark’s. This small falsehood I considered justifiable, because Mr. Gately had no right to say where I should go and where not! If I was untruthful it was because his unjust rules and regulations made me so! I am not a story-teller, ordinarily. If I was forced to be one, in order to enjoy some simple pleasures or diversions, it is no one’s business but my own.”

“That’s true, Hudson,” I interposed, “why constitute yourself Miss Raynor’s Sunday-School teacher?”

“Sorry I am to do so,” and the good-natured face showed real regret; “but I’ve orders. Now, Miss Raynor, I must put you a few straight questions. Where’s Mr. Amory Manning?”

“I don’t know! I only wish I did!”

“Now, now, that won’t do! I guess you can think up some hint of his whereabouts for me. You can’t deceive us, you know.”

“Nor do I want to!” Olive’s eyes blazed. “Because I found it necessary to evade my guardian’s espionage now and then you needn’t think I am unable to tell the truth! I have no idea where Mr. Manning is, and I am exceedingly anxious lest some harm has befallen him. If you can find him you will be doing me a great favor.”

“Are you engaged to him, Miss Raynor?”

“No, I am not, though I do not concede your right to ask that question. Mr. Manning and I are good friends, that is all.”

“Mr. Gately did not approve of his attentions to you?”

“He did not, and that was why I refrained from telling of occasions when I saw or might see Mr. Manning at his sister’s house. If that is of interest to you, I’ve no objections to your knowing it.”

“Can you fire a pistol, Miss Raynor?”

I perceived it was Hudson’s method to take her by surprise, and so, perhaps, learn something from an answer given off her guard.

“Yes,” she replied, promptly, “I am a good shot; why?”

Her wondering eyes were fearless, now, and to me it seemed a proof of her entire innocence that she showed no embarrassment at this inquiry.

But Hudson evidently thought differently. He looked accusingly at her, and continued, “Do you own a pistol?”

“Yes; Mr. Gately gave me one a few years ago.”

“Where is it?”

“Down at our country-place, on Long Island. I am afraid of burglars there, but not nearly so much so in the city.”

“H’m. Now, Miss Raynor, you are the last one known to have seen Amos Gately alive.”

“Why, Mr. Brice saw the shooting!”

“Only in shadow. I mean you are the last one known to have talked with him in his office. Was your interview – er, – amicable?”

“Entirely so. I went there for some money, as I occasionally did. My guardian gave me a check and I cashed it at the Trust Company Bank.”

“Yes, we know that; and that the check was given to you, and was later cashed, all at about the time Mr. Gately was killed.”

“Earlier Mr. Hudson. I was in the bank about half-past two.”

“No, Miss Raynor. We have the teller’s statement that you were there about three o’clock.”

“He is mistaken,” Olive’s voice was confident, and had in it a ring of indignation, “by three o’clock, or very little after, I was at Mrs. Russell’s.”

“Was Mr. Manning there?”

“No; he expected to come later, after he had attended to some business.”

“What was the business?”

“I do not know, but it must have been somewhere in the vicinity of the Puritan Building, for he was near there when I arrived.”

“At what time was that?”

“I don’t know exactly, perhaps half-past three or a little later. I had been at Mrs. Russell’s but a few moments when Mr. Talcott telephoned me there.”

“How did he know you were there?”

“He called up Miss Clark first, and she told him.”

“Your friends, then, aided and abetted you in deceiving your guardian?”

“I resent the way you put that, Mr. Hudson,” Olive looked at him haughtily, “but I answer, yes. My friends agreed with me that Mr. Gately was unreasonable in his commands and that I was not bound to obey them.”

“But you are now freed from his injustice.”

“That is a brutal speech and unworthy of any man! My freedom is too dearly purchased at such a fearful price!”

“Are you sure you think so?”

“What are you implying, Mr. Hudson? Speak out! Do you think I killed my guardian?”

“There are people that do think that, Miss Raynor.”

“Leave this house!” cried Olive, rising. “Such words can not be spoken here!”

“Now, now, miss, dramatics won’t get you anywheres! There is evidence against you, or so the police think, and it’s up to me to tell you that we must ask you not to go out of town without acquainting us of the fact. We do not accuse you, but we do want you where we can communicate with you at will. I am going now Miss Raynor. I came only to make sure on a few points, – which I have done, – and to tell you to remain within call. Indeed, I may as well tell you that any attempt to get away will be frustrated.”

“You mean I am under surveillance!”

“That’s about it, miss.”

Olive looked at him as one might regard a worm of the dust.

“Go!” she said, quietly but forcefully. “I shall not leave town, I shall probably not leave this house. Your suspicion is beneath contempt. However, it has taught me one thing, – I shall engage someone else – someone quite outside the stupid police, to discover the murderer of my uncle! And also to trace my friend, Mr. Manning.”

Hudson smiled. He looked at Olive almost tolerantly, as if she were a wilful child.

“All right. Miss Raynor. I’ll take your word as to your staying here, and I rather guess the police force will yet round up the murderer and will also discover the hiding-place of Amory Manning. Good day.”

Hudson went away, and Olive turned to me in a passion of rage.

“What insolence!” she exclaimed. “Are such things permitted? To come here and practically accuse me of my uncle’s murder!”

“He wasn’t your uncle, you know.”

“That doesn’t matter. I loved him as I would a relative. His sternness and his unreasonable commands were distasteful to me, but that didn’t alter my real love and affection for the man. He has been everything to me for the greater part of my life. He has been kindness itself in most matters. He indulged me in all possible ways as to creature comforts and luxuries. He never criticized the ways in which I spent my money, or in which I entertained myself, save in the matter of having guests or making visits.”

“And allowing admirers?”

“There were some men he approved of, – you may as well know, Mr. Brice, my guardian wished me to marry his friend and lawyer, Mr. Pond.”

“Why, when that gentleman is so greatly your senior?”

“Merely because Uncle was so fond of him. And, too, Uncle never seemed to realize that I was of a different generation from himself. He couldn’t understand, – he really couldn’t – why I wanted young company and gay parties. He didn’t, and he really assumed that I didn’t. I think he never realized how greatly he was depriving me when he forbade me society.”

“Did it really amount to that?”

“Practically. Or, if I succeeded in persuading him to let me have a house guest or a small party, he made things so unpleasant that I was glad when they were gone.”

“Unpleasant, how?”

“Oh, fussing around, as if his comfort were interfered with, – as if he were terribly incommoded by their presence, and by demanding my time and attention for himself, instead of allowing me to entertain my guests properly.”

“Doubtless so you wouldn’t do it again.”

“Yes, of course. But all that was uncomfortable for me, – almost unbearable, – yet one doesn’t kill one’s people for such things.”

To me this simple statement of Olive Raynor’s was more convincing than a storm of denial. She had stormed, with indignation, at the hint of suspicion, but her quiet, dignified refutation went far to assure me of her entire innocence.

“Of course, one doesn’t,” I agreed, “and now to find out who did do it. Have you any suspicion, – Miss Raynor, even the slightest?”

“No; except that it seems to me it must have been some man who knew Uncle in a business way. Though a generous and charitable man, Amos Gately was scrupulously just, and if he had enemies, they were men whom he had discovered in some wrong-doing and he had exposed or punished them. No man had a cause for righteous enmity against him, – of that I’m sure!”

CHAPTER VIII
The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

“And it is for me,” Olive went on, with a solemn look in her brown eyes, “to avenge the death of my guardian. I am not worried about this surveillance, or whatever they call it, of myself, – it is too absurd to take very seriously. Of course, I shall not leave the city, and I will answer any questions the police may put to me. For, you see, Mr. Brice, the only reason I had for telling falsehoods is a reason no longer. I did resort to ‘white lies’ because Uncle Amos was so unreasonably strict with me, but I’ve no further need for that sort of thing, and I assure you you will find me absolutely truthful from now on.”

A sad little smile accompanied the words, and an earnest expression on the delicate, high-bred face gave me implicit confidence in her sincerity.

“Then,” I hastened to advise her, “do not antagonize the police. If they have you under their eye, rest assured they think there is some reason to watch you. Be friendly, or, at least patient with them, and they will all the sooner be aware of their mistake. Moreover, you want their help in running down the real murderer of your guardian. It is a mysterious affair, Miss Raynor.”

“Oh, it is, Mr. Brice, and it may be that in penetrating the mystery we may unearth something – you know, – something detrimental to Mr. Gately’s character.”

“Have you any such fear – definitely, I mean?”

“Not definitely, no. If I had I should tell you. But in a vague, apprehensive way, I feel there must be something in his life that brought this about, and that I as yet know nothing of. But you think, don’t you, that we must go ahead and learn all we can?”

“You are not afraid, then, of investigation, for yourself – or, for anyone else?”

I put this query after a moment’s hesitation, yet I had to know.

“No, sir,” her voice rang out clearly. “I know what you mean, you are thinking of Mr. Manning. And there is another task for you. We must find Amory Manning. That man never went away, voluntarily, without sending me some word. He said he would come up here that night, – the night of Uncle’s death. He didn’t come, nor did he communicate with me in any way. That means he was unable to do so.”

“But what could have happened that would make it impossible for him to send you some word?”

“I don’t know – I can’t think, I’m sure. But he was attacked or overcome by someone who wanted him put out of the way. Mr. Manning had enemies, – that much I may tell you – ”

“Do you know more? That you can not tell me?”

“No; that is, I don’t know anything, – but I have some foreboding, – oh, nothing definite, Mr. Brice, but I can’t help fearing we shall never see Amory Manning alive again!”

“I don’t want to force your confidence, but can’t you tell me a few more facts? Why has he enemies? Are they political?”

“Yes; in a way. Don’t ask me now anyway. Let us try to find Amory and if we fail, I may decide it my duty to tell you what I now withhold.”

And with this I was forced to be content. For Olive Raynor did not talk like a young, inexperienced girl, as I had thought her; she gave me now the impression of a young woman involved in weighty matters, and the trusted holder of important secrets.

“To begin with, then,” I said, “suppose we try first to find Mr. Manning, – or to learn what became of him.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “but how shall we set about it? I’ve already telephoned to several of his friends, whom I know, and none of them has seen him since that day, – the day of Uncle’s death. Thank Heaven nobody is foolish enough to blame that on him!”

“They couldn’t very well, as he was with you when the discovery was made.”

“I know it. And for the police to say he ran away to hide to protect me from suspicion is just about the most absurd theory possible!”

“I think so, too. Now, to get down to dates. Have you heard anything of Mr. Manning later than the time when I saw him get off the Third Avenue car on his way home that night?”

“No, I haven’t. And we know he never reached his home. His rooms are in a house on Gramercy Park – ”

“That’s why he got off at Twenty-second Street – ”

“Yes, of course. He left you there, didn’t he?”

“We both got off the car there. My own rooms are in the same locality. But the snow squall was a whirlwind at the corner, and my glasses were so covered with flakes that I couldn’t see a thing for a moment, and when I could, Manning had got out of sight. I didn’t know then in just what direction he lived, so I looked all four ways but I didn’t see him. However, in the black squall, one couldn’t see half a dozen steps anyway.”

“Of course, he started toward his home, – perhaps, he almost reached it, – when whoever was lying in wait for him attacked him.”

“Why are you so sure he was attacked? He may have had an errand in some other direction.”

“I sort of see the thing as a picture. And as he got out at that corner I naturally see him going straight home. It is not likely that he would be going on some other errand, and yet get off at that corner.”

“No; I suppose not.”

“Well, then, as he never did go home, – hasn’t been there yet, – what theory is there except that he was prevented from going there? He may have been kidnaped, – don’t smile, it is among the possibilities, – or, he may have met with a serious accident, – slipped and broken his leg or something of that sort. But in such a case, he would have been taken to a hospital, and I should have heard of it. No, Mr. Brice, he was carried off by some powerful enemy. I say powerful, meaning rather, clever or diplomatic, for as I see it, trickery would have been used, not force, to abduct Amory Manning.”

“But why abduct him?” I cried in amazement “What is he? Why is he a menace?”

“I can’t tell you, Mr. Brice, unless it becomes gravely necessary. But it has to do with – with men higher up, – and it has nothing to do with my guardian’s death, – of that I’m certain.”

“Very well, Miss Raynor; I trust you, of course, that goes without saying, but I also trust your judgment in reserving your full confidence in this matter.”

“You may. I assure you I will tell you all, if it becomes imperative that I do so. Meantime, let us try to find some trace of him.”

“You have tried the hospitals?”

“Yes; I have telephoned to some of them, and I asked our family doctor to inquire of others. He did so, but with only negative results. Now – ”

“Now, it’s time to call in a detective,” I said, positively. “And I don’t mean a mere police detective, but a special investigator. Have you any objection to such a course?”

“No; not if we get a good one. I don’t know much about such things, but don’t some of those all-wise detectives have more theories and deductions than results?”

“You have put your finger on a vital flaw in the usual Smarty-Cat detective,” I laughed. “But I know of a splendid man. He is eccentric, I admit, but beyond that he has none of the earmarks of the Transcendental Detective of the story-books. He is intelligent rather than cocksure and efficient rather than spectacular. He is expensive, but no more so than his success warrants.”

“That sounds well. But first, Mr. Brice, can’t we do a little investigating by ourselves? I had hoped so. To engage a detective is to make the whole affair so public, and I shrink from that.”

“Not necessarily, Miss Raynor. If the man I speak of should take the case, he would make no fuss or stir about it. And if you say so, he can also try to find the man who killed Amos Gately.”

“Oh, that is what I want! Yes, let us retain – or whatever the procedure is, your detective. What is his name?”

“Don’t laugh, but it is Penny Wise!”

“What? How ridiculous!”

“Yes, but true. Pennington Wise is on his visiting cards, but no human nature could refrain from the inevitable nickname.”

“He ought to change that name! It’s enough to belittle any good work he might do!”

“Well, he doesn’t think so. In fact, he has become so used to having people joke about it that he only smiles perfunctorily and goes on about his business.”

“Will you ask him to help us?”

“Of course I will, and if not too busy on some other matter he will doubtless begin at once.”

“I feel so young and inexperienced,” Olive shuddered, “to be deciding these big things. It seems as if someone older and wiser ought to direct me. Oh, I know I have your help and counsel, but I wish I had some relative or near friend on whose judgment I could rely. I am singularly alone in the world, Mr. Brice.”

“You have Mrs. Vail?”

“My companion? She is delightful as a chaperon and promises to be most pleasant and congenial in my home life, but she is not capable of giving me any advice of value in these important affairs.”

“You are indeed alone, Miss Raynor, but you are amazingly capable for a young woman and you continually surprise me by your grasp of the situation and your ability to rise to its demands.”

“If I only had Amory Manning to help me.”

Poor child, I knew that was at the bottom of her loneliness, and though I didn’t presume to sympathize, I felt privileged to assure her of my personal help as well as my interested performance of my legal duties.

“Well, then, Mr. Brice,” she responded, “there is one thing I want you to do for me. I want you to go to the morgue. I can’t bring myself to do that, nor do I want to ask anyone else I know to do so.”

“Certainly,” I replied, instinctively treating the matter casually, for I saw she was deeply moved. “It will be merely a form, but it is better to feel we have made every possible inquiry and left no stone unturned. I will go there at once, – now, if you say so.”

She seemed gratified at my prompt compliance, and urged my going immediately.

“Come back this evening and report,” she said, and then, with one of those sudden changes of demeanor which I was beginning to learn were characteristic of her, she bade me good afternoon with a quick, curt manner, and practically dismissed me.

I started on my grewsome errand with enough food for thought to set my brain in a whirl. I was deeply in the matter now, and quite satisfied that it should be so. I was the lawyer and adviser of Miss Raynor, and I determined to do my best to deserve and justify her choice. Hitherto obscure, I should now be looked up to by members of my profession with envy – and, doubtless, with criticism. The latter, I meant to take good care, should be favorable.

As I looked at it I had three distinct missions. First, to arrange and attend to all of Miss Raynor’s financial matters. Second, to assist her to track down the murderer of Amos Gately. Third, to help her to find, or to learn the fate of Amory Manning.

The first was my only personal charge. The other two must be accomplished by Wise, and for my part I felt sure he would succeed.

My visit to the morgue, as I had surmised, brought no result. The poor unfortunates whose mortal remains had been brought there during or since Wednesday, the day of Manning’s disappearance, could by no stretch of the imagination be thought to look like Amory Manning.

Though I had never seen him until that day, I had a vivid picture of the man, large-framed, well set up, and with a general air of forcefulness and power. I had watched his face, as we stood in the crowded street-car, too far apart for conversation, yet in full view of each other.

His face was strong and scholarly, the latter effect enhanced by his huge, shell-rimmed glasses, and he had thick, rather coarse dark hair. Also a dark Vandyke beard and small mustache, both carefully trimmed.

“No,” I said to the morgue-keeper, “the man I’m looking for isn’t here.”

I went on to tell him of Manning, in case he knew anything to tell me. But he only said, briefly:

“You’re not the first, sir. The police have looked here for Mr. Manning and some others have done so beside.”

So the police were ahead of me! Well, that only made it the more certain that what we sought was not here.

“There was another chap, but he wasn’t Mr. Manning either,” vouchsafed my informant. “Howsomever, the police went to see him. Wanta go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, that same afternoon, there was a corpse picked outa the East River, froze stiff. Leastways, we thought he was a corpse, but blamed if the chap didn’t come to life!”

I wasn’t greatly interested, for if the corpse was taken from the river that afternoon, it couldn’t have been Manning. But the morgue-keeper went on: “You might take a look, sir, to see if you know him. For the poor fellow’s lost his mind, – no, not that, – but he’s lost his memory, and he dunno who he is!”