Triggy Drew had been trained in the hardest school in the world. Loris Stockbridge’s statement, delivered with such sincerity and so naïvely, completely upset him. It was like a gentle reminder that, as a hunter of men, he had failed. He took the blow with flaming cheeks and an almost stopped heart.

Delaney realized that something of moment in the case had happened. He stared at his chief, then turned his eyes upon Harry Nichols, who stepped through the portières and stood by Loris’ side.

“What is it, Chief?” asked the operative. “Was there anything in what she said?”

“Anything!” exclaimed Drew, recovering himself with a tossing shrug of his shoulders. “Anything? Everything! The man we want is––”

“Found?” breathed Loris clutching Nichols’ arm.

“Not yet—but very soon!” said the detective with sanguine eyes. “We want that trouble-hunter, Delaney,” he added gathering in the details for action as he spoke. “You’ll have to hurry right over to the address and see if you can round him up. If he isn’t there—get him! I want him brought here at once. He’s got much to explain!”

“I’ll go right now,” said Delaney, starting toward the reception room.

“Wait,” said Drew.

Delaney turned at the portières.

“Don’t phone me here,” the detective warned. “Don’t do anything by telephone. We’re on the trail of a man or men who can tap wires. He or they may have a confederate in this house. Be careful—get your suspect and bring him here. We’ll try him with the footprints. We’ll check up with the fingerprints. Then, if he don’t cave in, we’ll turn him over to Fosdick and the Third Degree. I firmly believe that Albert, whom I saw in the library and who was in this house in the early afternoon of this day, is implicated in the murder. Strange that I never suspected him.”

“I’m going!” growled Delaney, tearing his eyes away from Loris and glancing through the curtains. “I’m right after him, Chief. I won’t stop till I get him, either.”

“If you don’t make it in thirty minutes,” said Drew glancing sharply at his watch, “if you don’t make it by then—come back here. Perhaps something will have turned up in the meantime. Get that?”

“Sure, Chief! Good-by!”

Delaney had passed through the portières, crossed the reception room and pressed aside the tapestries leading to the hallways, before Drew stepped to the broad doorway and motioned for Loris and Nichols to take their former positions. He waited until they were seated with their faces in the shadow cast by the overhead silken hangings. He spoke then, and to the point.

“This case,” he said, thrusting his hands in his coat pockets and striding back and forth. “This case is clearing clue by clue. The trouble-man, whom some one let into the house this afternoon, is the missing link in the chain of circumstance and applied deduction. Who let him in?”

“I did!”

Drew stopped in his stride. “You, Nichols?” he questioned sharply. “Why did you let him in?”

“Because I asked Harry to,” defended Loris with heat. “I heard the bell ring. I sent the maid downstairs. She came back and told me that a man from the telephone company was waiting to look over the connections. She said that he said that there was trouble with the wires.”

“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Drew; “that is,” he added hastily, “I don’t believe there was anything the matter at all. In the light of what Delaney has told me, that fellow came here last night, when some one else named Frosby or Frisby was sent. Now why would he want to take another’s place? For one reason only—the same reason that he came here this afternoon. This reason concerns your future health and security. We had one death in this house which followed his first visit. We don’t want anything to happen after his second visit.”

“You are right, Mr. Drew,” said Nichols. “I was careless. I went down stairs and talked with the fellow. It was just a few minutes after I arrived from downtown. He seemed so plausible that I asked the Central Office Detective at the door, who gave the permission. It was all my fault, I guess.”

“Where did this fellow go? What did he do in the house?”

“He went into the library and tested the phone there. The connection seemed to be all right. Then he went down stairs and tested the butler’s ’phone. The butler had been taken as a material witness by Fosdick. I followed the man. He didn’t do anything but test and then talk with Franklin Official—I think it was.”

“Are you sure he talked over the phone? It’s ridiculously easy for a person to hold down the hook and make believe they are talking to most anybody.”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Drew,” said the captain, turning toward Loris. “Did he talk to anybody when he used this ’phone, Miss Stockbridge?”

“I believe so, Harry. I really thought he did.”

Drew furrowed his brows in perplexity. There was no evidence shown that the trouble-man had ever talked with anybody, via wire, from the mansion. He recalled the first appearance of the lineman in the library. That time both calls, to Central, might have been feigned by holding down the hook and speaking into a disconnected transmitter. The man was clever. He knew all there was to be known concerning telephony.

“I’m a child,” the detective concluded, swinging about the room in perplexity. “One thing,” he added aloud to Loris and Nichols. “One thing! We are absolutely alone in this part of the house. I have locked the maid in her room. No one can get through the door to the hall. There’s a spring lock on it. Delaney closed it when he went out.”

“And there’s a score of detectives scattered about,” said the captain reassuringly, as he leaned toward Loris. “Why should we fear anything at all?”

“I wouldn’t, Harry,” said Loris, “if it wasn’t for what happened to poor father. Mr. Drew took the same precautions and had everything locked and watched. It doesn’t seem as if we were in New York at all. It seems like some mediæval time and place.”

Drew reached for a fragile-looking chair, turned it, sat down and thrust his custom-made shoes out across the rug in the direction of Loris and Nichols, whose faces shone white and drawn in the soft light of the alcove where they were seated.

Swirling thought surged through the detective’s brain. He went over the case with dulled understanding. Briefly, he had eliminated the former suspects and compressed the matter into a small compass. His conclusion brought him to his feet with slow swaying from side to side. Some one in state prison was probably directing matters. Some one in New York was carrying out the arch-fiend’s orders. This free agent had the nerve of the damned and the cunning of Cagliostro. He had succeeded in planting a confederate in the mansion, or entering himself, and slaying Stockbridge. The entire case, concluded Drew, rested in capturing the free agent before he could do further murder. Loris was marked and had been from the first.

“What servants remain?” he asked, dropping his hand on his right hip pocket and feeling the bulge of an automatic there. “Which of the servants, Miss Stockbridge, have Fosdick and his men left for you?”

“The French maid,” said Loris softly.

“I saw her! She looks all right. She says she has been with you five or six years.”

“Six—almost. It’s been over six years, Mr. Drew!”

“That ought to let her out of the case. Now, the next one?”

“The housekeeper, Mrs. Seeley. She has been with us ten or twelve years—ever since I can remember. Mother thought the world of Mrs. Seeley.”

“Who else?”

“Father’s valet. They didn’t arrest him.”

“He was down to my office. He looks all right. I’ll cross him off the list of suspects. Now, are there any more servants in the house?”

“There’s a French chef and a pantry man, I think. Also there’s a poor old darkey who tends to the furnace. I don’t believe he leaves the basement. I never see him, only on holidays.”

“The butler, then, and the doorman and the second man and the rest of the servants have been taken down to Center Street for interrogation and as suspects. That leaves us with very few to handle, Miss Stockbridge. I’m going to start by securing the door which leads into the hallway. Then we’ll wait here.”

Drew hurried through the tapestries, stopped, and examined the lock of the door before he shot home a second bolt which was functioned by a butterfly of heavy gold alloy. He stood erect with both hands pressing at his temples. It came to him with double force that the same precautions had been taken when Stockbridge was alone in the library downstairs. There was the lock of superior make and the winged-latch. There was the two-inch, or more, door of dark wood. There were the servants and detectives both within and outside the mansion. Yet the millionaire had been reached in a secret manner through all the precautions.

“Things repeat, sometimes,” mused Drew, fingering the catch and the flat key. “The same conditions bring the same results. I––”

The detective’s voice trailed into a whisper as he heard footsteps outside the door. He reached back to his pocket and waited. His heart thumped like a prisoned bird within his breast. It was a case of strained nerves. He felt the responsibility of guarding Loris.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, recovering himself and squaring his jaw. “Bah,” he repeated. “It’s somebody for me.”

He opened the door after twisting the butterfly and turning the flat key in the lock. A blurred figure pressed forward. A gruff voice boomed from a muffling collar.

“Hello, Chief! I’m back in a half-hour! No luck, either!”

Drew waited until Delaney had removed his overcoat and overshoes, which he placed in one corner by a hall-tree. “What did you find?” he asked glancing toward the tapestries.

“The fellow’s beat it for good. Landlady says he owes her one week’s rent. He cleaned out with a suit-case and left this.” The operative reached in his pocket and brought forth a single drill of quarter-inch diameter. He held it out. “All I could find, Chief, after a quick frisk. This was in the mattress.”

“Regulation lineman’s wood-bit,” said Drew as he examined the size number on the shank. “This might have been the one used in boring the hole between the slot-booths at Grand Central Station.”

“Then Albert is the lad, Chief?”

“We don’t know, yet. There’s lots of bits like this one. Did you try it for fingerprints?”

“They’re all rubbed off! I had to pull it from the mattress. It was stuck in a hole near the foot of the bed.”

“Hold it!” said Drew. “Hold it for evidence. Put it with your plaster casts. Now––”

“Well, Chief?”

Drew glanced at his watch. “I’m going out to that drug-store,” he said. “I want to phone. I can’t use the phones of this house. The wires may be tapped. You stay right by this door and wait till I get back. It won’t be more than ten minutes. Go get my hat when you’re putting the bit away. It’s in the corner by Loris and Nichols. Tell them I’m stepping out and that you will stand guard. They might hold me. She is very nervous.”

Delaney was back at the detective’s side, after a clumsy stride through the tapestries. “Cute couple,” he said, jerking his thumb over-shoulder toward the inner room. “They’re sittin’ there so close you couldn’t get a sheet of paper between them. I like that colleen, Chief! She’s the kind you see on them magazine covers—only prettier.”

“A cat can look at a queen,” quoted Drew, pulling down his hat and opening the door wide. “Be sure and lock this after me,” he warned. “Lock and bolt it. Stand guard and don’t let anybody in at all. I’m only going round the block.”

Delaney shut the door and turned the key. He followed this action by twisting the butterfly. Then he drew his gun and waited, grimly alert.

Drew reached the drug-store after a brisk, lung-cleansing walk through the down-driving snow. He dropped a coin in the slot and first called up his office. Harrigan, who had remained at his post, answered for most of the operatives who were out on the case and who had ’phoned in at every opportunity.

“Get Frick at the prison,” Drew shot back, after making a few notes. “Get him and tell him to call up this ’phone,” Drew glanced at the number over the transmitter. “Tell him to call up Gramercy Hill 9749 and let whoever I station here, know to whom and to what number Morphy is talking in New York. Get that?”

“Sure,” came back over the wires. “Sure, Chief. You want to pinch the fellow he’s connecting with?”

“I certainly do,” said Drew. “We can work it this way. As soon as I find out from Frick where Morphy or anybody else is ’phoning from the prison, I can get a man over there in time to make the arrest. The superintendent at Gramercy Hill will help us out if the call comes through his exchange. He can get the girl to stall for a minute or two. I’ll send Delaney here to hold this end of the wire. You keep him posted as to developments. O’Toole, yes! He’s planted in the alley back of the house. He can’t report. All the others are all right?”

Drew hung up with a flip of the receiver. He backed out of the booth and hurried around the corner. He reached the iron-grilled gate of the mansion with his head down and the snow seeping between his collar and his neck.

“Rotten night!” said the Central Office man at the door. “I don’t think we’ll hear anything from anybody. Them gunmen like the backrooms of saloons too well to pull off a gun-play in this storm, Inspector.”

“You never can tell,” said Drew, shaking his coat and hurrying toward the stairway which led to Loris Stockbridge’s apartment.

Delaney opened the door after a repeated knock in Morse code. He eyed his chief. He motioned toward the inner rooms. “All quiet,” he said with a broad smile. “Them turtle doves sure like to be left alone.”

“And you would too! Especially if you lost your only relative the night before—lost him in the way she lost hers.”

The big operative gulped down the thrust. “What did you find out?” he asked in a husky whisper.

“Get your coat on. Get over to that drug-store and plant near that booth—Gramercy Hill 9749. Frick, at the prison, is going to call that booth up as soon as Morphy or anybody else there tries to get New York. If Frick gives you a number, call up the superintendent at Gramercy Hill and tell him who you are. He’s on duty all night. He’ll give you the address of the number, and stall the call. That’ll give you time to rush to the address and grab your man.”

“I’ll grab him, Chief!” rumbled Delaney, reaching for his storm coat which was supposed to be fur-lined. “Leave that to me!” he added. “Jus’ leave it tu me!”

Drew eyed the operative’s huge hands. “I’ll do that,” he said with a short laugh. “Now hurry! No, wait.”

“What is it, Chief?” asked Delaney in the doorway.

“If the address is downtown, or in Brooklyn, what would you do then?”

“I’d get the office, Chief, and have Harrigan rush over a man. This super at Gramercy Hill ought to be able to stall that call long enough for us to connect—with both hands and both feet.”

“Go to it!” said Drew, pressing Delaney out through the door. “Good luck,” he added as he twisted the key and shot the bolt. “Now we are getting there,” he said softly. “Unfortunately for that devil up-the-river, he has to phone from one place. That’s the thing which will beat him. I hate to think what would happen if he was outside giving orders. He could get away with it, nicely.”

Drew never felt surer of himself in a case. He tested the lock and bolt for a second time. He draped the tapestries and strode into the sitting room with his shoulders held back—a sanguine light in his olive eyes.

“Well, Miss Stockbridge,” he said, pausing in the center of the room and smiling. “I think we are on the verge of big things. The attempt cannot be made to-night without we have plenty of warning.”

“Good!” exclaimed Loris, standing upright and arranging her lavender gown about her slipper-tops. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time, Mr. Drew,” she added, glancing archly at the detective, beneath her dark lashes. “Has that Mr. Delaney found any one?”

Drew raised his brows. Loris’ question was not exactly a compliment to the big operative, who meant so well.

“He hasn’t found anything,” said Drew, with soft, pleasing voice. “He hasn’t done that, but I’m venturing my future reputation that he will find our man—the trouble-man perhaps.”

Harry Nichols stepped to Loris’ side. “We were children there,” he admitted frankly. “At least I was. I never suspected him at all. His manners were so pleasant. He seemed so weak and intent about his business.”

“Ah!” said Drew, raising his finger. “That’s it! He was intent about his business. Only, this particular business concerned the taking of a human life in cold blood. Mr. Stockbridge was murdered by this fiend, in the guise of a harmless trouble-hunter. How the murder was accomplished and by what lethal method we do not know. I’m acting on the theory that if we catch the man we will find out how it was done. If I can’t make him—Fosdick, Commissioner of Detectives, will. May God help him if he doesn’t talk to Fosdick!”

“But can’t we find out how father was killed?” asked Loris, with tears glazing over her eyes. “It don’t seem—it don’t––”

The captain caught Loris about the waist and led her to the divan in the alcove. She sank down with her face covered with her hands. Soft sobs, brought to her throat by the memory of the murder, caused Drew to pace the rugs with alert, nervous strides like a man who would guard her from some menacing shadow. He went to the ventilators and closed them slightly. He crossed the room to the radiator-boxes and set them in an open position. He adjusted a thermostat on the wall, to seventy degrees. He stood back then and listened with both ears strained for outside sounds.

Snow sifted across the curtain-drawn panes with a cutting of fine diamonds against diamonds. A wind whistled and moaned and swirled over the turrets and towers of the mansion. An echo lifted from the driving traffic of the Avenue. Below this echo, so faint it seemed like a murmur of a distant sea, the city throbbed with the shifting of the whimpering wind. Once it roared. Then afterward there was silence, save for the sifting snow, and Loris’ low, throat choke from welling sorrow.

She sat up finally and dried her eyes. “I should be ashamed of myself,” she said, brokenly. “I must be brave. I fear something, though. It seems to be in the room or the air. What is it I fear, Mr. Drew?” Her question was vague. Her eyes shone hectically bright and strangely alluring to the detective.

“There’s nothing to fear!” he declared with a direct glance. “I’m armed! Then,” he added as an additional encouragement. “Then, Mr. Nichols is a soldier! You are in safe hands, believe me!”

Harry Nichols bowed politely. “I’ve got a gun, myself,” he admitted candidly. “It’s not that little one, either. It’s army regulation. It, or the ones like it, have been stopping the Huns. I guess we’ll take care of anything that comes up to-night, Mr. Drew. It’s getting late, isn’t it?”

The detective glanced at his watch. “I ought to hear from Delaney,” he said, replacing the watch and reaching for a chair. “Delaney is like old Dobbin—faithful and slow.”

Drew sat down, pulled at the knees of his black trousers and rested his heels on the thick soft pile of a Persian rug. Behind him was the cheval glass and the telephone stand. Before him, and in the shade of the silk draperies, Loris’ eyes glowed alongside the captain’s resolute face.

The minutes passed with the trio in the same position. The snow sifted across the cold panes. The wind whined. Suddenly between gusts, Loris asked point-blankly:

“Do you suspect that man, Morphy?”

“Yes; I do!” said Drew with a snap. “I believe that every single lead we have points to him. I believe he planned to destroy your father ever since the day of conviction. I believe––”

“But he is in prison.”

“Ah!” said the detective, with bright eyes. “So is his master, Lucifer, in the lower regions. He’s there, but he has a long arm. Morphy’s tool in this affair is probably the telephone repair-man. You saw him. Mr. Nichols saw him. I saw him. We all agree that he does not look the part of a scoundrel and a scoundrel’s tool. But,” Drew paused and spread out his hands; “but,” he continued, “that’s the reason he was chosen for Morphy’s murderous work. You can’t send a thug into a drawing room—or a library. You can’t cut a sharp slice with a dull tool. This trouble-hunter is all that the name implies—a hunter of trouble. I don’t doubt that we have the case rounded up, save for bringing him in. Morphy, we can get at any time. He’s in prison and he’s getting very close to the little green door that leads to the electric-chair. One slip to-night, and we have him!”

“Miss Stockbridge must go south after the funeral,” said Nichols. “She can’t be jeopardized! She is nervous and has suffered acutely. I for one am sorry we let her stay here. It is the place she should not be. They know where to look for her!”

“They’re beat to-night,” assured Drew, rising and stretching his arms. “My! my!” he added, “this is slow, sleepy work. I’d ask for tea, but I think it’s best we stay locked in here. Don’t you, Miss Stockbridge?”

“Marie can get some. There’s a service-waiter running up to her room. Suppose I order tea, or coffee, and cakes. It might cheer us up?”

Drew held out a warding arm as Loris rose and started toward the writing room. “I’ll tend to it,” he said. “You stay right here close up to Mr. Nichols. We’re taking no chances at all.”

The detective parted the portières and knocked upon the maid’s door as he turned the key with his left hand. He waited as she gave the order through a silver-plated speaking tube. He heard the service-waiter rising. He leaned forward and took the tray with a sharp glance about the maid’s room. It was as clean and as neat as a work basket. A French novel, with a vivid portrait of a poilu carrying a very sharp bayonet on its cover, lay in the center of a white counterpane on the bed.

“Good-night!” he said as he closed and carefully locked the door. He reached downward and caught up the tray. He started across the writing-room. He paused in its center as he heard:

“Burrrr! Burrrr! Burrrrr!”

Shrillingly the perfumed air of the suite vibrated with the silver notes of the telephone. Drew hesitated, with the tray balanced in his hand. He took one step forward as Loris swished across the sitting-room, lifted the hard-rubber receiver and voiced a soft, “Hello!”

Drew let go of the tray and sprang forward. He parted the portières and watched Loris’ face. It changed between seconds to a flushed mask of crimson-fear. She staggered back, dropped the receiver, and cried “Harry!” as she sank to the floor.

Drew darted across the rugs and snatched up the instrument. He heard a low, chuckling laugh that died to a whisper and then to nothingness. He flipped the receiver back on the hook. He turned with a savage twist. He stared across the room toward Loris, who had risen to her knees and whose head was against Nichols’ olive-drab breast.

“What was said?” he questioned sharply.

A mass of turbaned, midnight-hued hair uncoiled and fell about the girl’s white face. Glorious eyes dulled, then glowed, with the fire which was pulsing within her. Her lips trembled and went blanched as she throated brokenly:

“The man—the man at the other end said.... He said that his master had ordered my coffin.... He said that I had only a few hours to live.... He said that he would call me up again.... For me to be ready then, to meet my Master and my—doom.”

Loris Stockbridge finished speaking with a low sob which went straight to the detective’s heart. He advanced across the room and ran his arm about her supple waist. “We’ll help her to the divan,” he told Nichols. “That’s it! Right over here and in the corner. She’s all right. I’ll tend to that threat which came over the wires.”

Drew backed away and turned toward the telephone. He eyed it with cold calculation. He took one step further, then wheeled and glanced at Nichols.

“I want to trace that call if it is humanly possible,” he said with decision. “We can find out, at least, from where it came. Suppose you leave me here with Miss Stockbridge, and you go down stairs and around to the drug-store?”

Loris rested her weight on one elbow. She sat erect, with slowly widening eyes. Her hands strayed to her hair and pressed it back from her ears. She gained command of herself after a shudder had passed through her slender body. She half rose.

“I’ve heard that voice before!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the ’phone. “It was familiar, Mr. Drew. Now where have I heard it?”

“Some friend of your father’s?”

“No, I don’t think it was. But I’ve heard it in this house.”

“A servant—the valet?”

“No! No, Mr. Drew, it wasn’t the valet’s voice. It was whispering and consumptive. It squeaked. It sounded like a little boy’s voice.”

“How about that trouble-man?” Drew advanced with keen steps. He felt that he was very close to the truth.

“It might have been. Only—only, Mr. Drew, it was younger—thinner—squeakier. It was a terrible voice. It rings and rings in my ears. It was so sure!”

“Ump!” declared Drew with clenched fists. “It won’t be so sure,” he said, squaring his jaw. “It won’t be near so sure, next time. I think it was that trouble-man you heard. Don’t you remember anything he said when he was in the house, for comparison?”

“I just heard him say—I heard him say that the connections, I think he called them, were all right. Then he went away, Mr. Drew.”

“Did his voice squeak then?”

“It was rather low—like a boy’s or a girl’s. He seemed too polite. He had his cap in his hand.” Loris stopped speaking and stood erect. She arranged her gown and glanced down at Nichols. “I feel stronger,” she said bravely. “I wonder what became of that tea?”

Drew stepped into the writing-room and found the tea-pot upon its side. He poured from this a cup of tea which he carried to Nichols. “Just taste it,” he ordered. “I want to be sure it isn’t doped or anything like that. That’s it. Just a small swallow. It’s all right, isn’t it? It isn’t bitter?”

Nichols handed the cup to Loris. “Drink it,” he said with confidence. “That’s good tea—only a little cold.”

Drew took the empty cup and set it down on a small table. “You’ll go for me?” he asked Nichols. “I want it traced without using the wires of this house. They might be tapped.”

“Be back in ten minutes!” said the captain at the tapestries, after Loris had nodded. “Whom shall I ask for at Gramercy Hill?”

“The superintendent—Jack Nefe! If he isn’t there, get the chief operator. Delaney will attend to that. Find out from what number the call came. We might get that whispering devil right away.”

“I believe it was the trouble-man,” said Loris, as Drew returned after locking the door to the hallway. “Now that I think of it—I’m almost sure it was. He just tried to change and lower his voice—that was all.”

“Lower it?”

“Yes, Mr. Drew. It was so faint that I hardly heard it at first. He seemed afraid of something. Perhaps somebody was in the room where he was telephoning.”

“That might have been. Well—he can’t hurt or harm you that way. The thing is for you to keep up your courage. Fear is a terrible thing if you would let yourself be mastered by it. It might be their game to break you down by a series of threats.”

“I won’t do that. I’ve Harry and you to stand by me!”

Drew pulled out his watch. “It’s getting toward midnight,” he said. “No word yet from Delaney or any of the others on watch. I think that the storm will clear soon. You can go to bed. Harry—Mr. Nichols and I’ll get a deck of cards and keep watch out here. We’ll do sentry duty. He’s used to that!”

Loris glided about the room. She stopped at the cheval glass and arranged her hair with a series of twists that formed a turban secured by loops. She swished around and glanced archly toward Drew. Their eyes met bravely. Hers dropped under shading lashes.

“I’m all right,” she whispered with a half laugh. “I did look awful. It was the shock of hearing that terrible man. How childish to call me up and say what he did. He didn’t mean it!”

“Ah,” said Drew, reaching in his pocket and bringing out a key. “Ah, he did mean it, I think. He has overreached himself by telephoning. Gramercy Hill Exchange is on the alert. There’s Mr. Nichols with good news, at the door. Now for his report.”

The captain came in, brushing snow from his olive-drab uniform. He glanced at Loris as he strode across the room and took her hand with a firm grip. “Delaney,” he said confidentially, “was right at the booth. He was sitting on a chair, propped up and talking with the prescription clerk. He did the telephoning to Gramercy Hill. I don’t know who he got there, but they already knew about the call.”

Nichols turned toward Drew for confirmation.

“That’s right!” the detective exclaimed. “They should know! The vice-president, Westlake, has left orders to record all calls to this house. Where was that whispering voice from, Mr. Nichols?”

“From Forty-second Street and Broadway.”

“Close!” exclaimed Drew, rubbing his hands. “The fellow took chances.”

“It came from a slot-booth in a cigar store in a big building. It only lasted two minutes. The operator at Gramercy Hill says the first voice she heard, asking for Gramercy Hill 9764, was harsh and loud. I don’t understand that.”

“Harsh and loud,” repeated Drew, toying with his watch chain. “That’s odd. Was it the same man that Miss Stockbridge heard?”

“The operator don’t know. Delaney says maybe there were two of them. One, who called up, and one who talked to this room.” Nichols turned and nodded toward the silver-plated telephone.

“Hardly possible,” mused Drew. “I think he changed his voice after he got the connection. He didn’t want Miss Stockbridge to recognize him.”

Loris glanced at the two men. “What will they do?” she asked anxiously. “Will Mr. Delaney and the other detectives catch him by that call?”

“Hardly,” said Drew. “He was in and out within three minutes. The bird has flown from there!”

“But where will he go?”

“I don’t know, Miss Stockbridge. I wish that I did know. There are over a hundred thousand telephones in New York he could use. It’s impossible to guess which one. The booths at the Grand Central are covered by one of my operatives. The telephone company is on the alert for all calls to this house. All they can do is to record them and tell us what happens after it happens. We are trying now to get this whispering dog when he is compelled to wait at a booth. If Morphy ’phones him from the prison to-night we have him. The telephone company is going to delay the call after getting the number. It would look natural. Then, we can strike at the booth or place where the call is directed in time to catch the man Morphy is telephoning to. Up to now, Morphy has not ’phoned or Delaney would have said something about it.”

“But can’t you stop these calls?” asked Loris.

“Very easy. We could order the wires disconnected. But then we wouldn’t catch our man. He would be suspicious and wait for another time.”

“The whole thing seems so strange, Mr. Drew. We’re locked in here. The house is so well guarded. All they can do is ’phone and yet we—at least I am nervous. Why have I got that strange feeling?”

“From experience!” declared Drew. “If we knew how your poor father was killed there wouldn’t be cause for worry. We don’t know. It was so subtle that we are confronted with the unknown in terrible form. You feel a shadow and so do I. A reaching shadow about this splendid house of yours. It isn’t anything we can grasp and say, ‘Come here! You’re under arrest.’ It’s the uncanny mystery of the entire case that holds us three on the ragged-edge. I confess I have not been myself since last night. The powers of darkness and Lucifer, himself, have nothing on the people we are fighting.”

“How about running Morphy in the guard house, or whatever they have up there?” asked Nichols. “Why not lay the case before the warden and have him put out of harm’s way? That’s what they’d do in the Army!”

“We can’t prove a single thing on him!” declared Drew. “He used the ’phone—once or twice. Perhaps he has permission from the superintendent of state prisons to do so. He has business interests which require his telephoning, we’ll say.”

“Then we’re just going to wait right here?” asked Loris, stamping her slipper. “Wait right here and let them do their worst?”

“The city detectives would do the same thing I’m doing,” said Drew on the defensive. “They’d trap their men. Do you want to see the man or men who slayed your father, escape? He will, or they will, unless we give them enough rope to hang themselves.”

“Or wire!” said Nichols cheerfully. “No, Loris, Mr. Drew is right. He’s done everything. All we have got to do, is wait. Let’s sit down for a little while. Delaney said he might have word soon.”

Drew waited until Loris had pressed herself into a small compass at the back of the divan, with Harry Nichols leaning over her in a shielding position which was thoughtful and at the same time affectionate. He strode toward the writing room and parted the heavy, silk portières. He studied every detail. He dropped the portières and crossed the sitting room to the doorway leading into Loris’ chamber. This, too, he searched with his eyes. Backing to the center of the room he dropped his chin in thought. A sound outside the mansion caused him to turn and hurry to a window. He brushed the curtain aside and tried to peer out. He rubbed the frosted glass vigorously. His nose pressed to a white button as he searched the side street. A taxi had come to a grinding halt directly below the window. Its wheels spun upon the slippery surface. A man leaned out of an open doorway and urged the driver on with a brandished fist of ham-like proportions. The driver backed into the snow, dropped into first speed and stepped on his throttle. The taxi leaped forward, gripped the surface, and plowed toward Fifth Avenue in a welter of flying ice and flakes.

Drew sprang back and faced Loris and Nichols who had risen and were standing together in the glow from the cluster over their heads.

“What happened?” they asked in unison. “What was outside?”

“Delaney!” snapped Drew, dragging out his watch and glancing at it. “Delaney’s got word where to find his man. He’s on the trail at last! It’s twelve-two. We ought to have that fellow in a half hour.”

“The trouble-man?” asked Loris, with rising hopes. “Do you think it is the trouble-man, Mr. Drew?”

“Nine chances in ten, it is! I’m venturing a guess it is. If we get him—if Delaney gets him—he’ll know it. Delaney used to work under the old-time police chiefs. They showed scant consideration.”

“But, he won’t hurt him!” said Loris, with a tremulous exclamation.

“That murderer! Why, Miss Stockbridge, isn’t he plotting to slay you? Didn’t he kill your father? I wish I were in Delaney’s place.”

“Me too!” declared Nichols, drawing closer to the detective. “Say, Inspector, I want to congratulate you. I do.”

“Wait, Harry. Just wait! You two sit down and be quiet. This affair is a personal one with me. I don’t doubt that Morphy or perhaps some one else in state prison ’phoned to the same party who phoned Miss Loris. That was all we needed. Delaney jumped into a taxi and hurried downtown as fast as the storm permitted. Perhaps the call came from the same booth. I don’t think so, though.”

“The one at Forty-second Street and Broadway?”

“I don’t think so, Nichols. This fellow seems to pick a new one every time. He’s very crafty. That alone shows a criminal mind.”

Drew paced the floor with soft gliding. He turned at the portières and crossed to the tapestries. He returned and stood before Loris and Nichols.

“Captain,” he said, “we can now begin to reconstruct this case. We can get some of the dead-wood from our minds. It is apparent to me that one of Mr. Stockbridge’s sworn enemies—Morphy, for instance—confined in state’s prison, set about to slay both members of the family. He secured a confederate whom he knew. This confederate has never been arrested in the state. We have that from the finger prints in the booth at Grand Central. We will presume that this confederate is the trouble-man. He is probably an expert electrician. He either tapped in on the wires the night Mr. Stockbridge was murdered or got behind the switchboard and called up the library ’phone.”

“The switchboard?” asked Loris. “You mean the big place where the girls are?”

“Not exactly there. The wires run down and are tagged. It would be possible for him to cut in somewhere between the switchboard and the conduits. Now I don’t know how it was done. There’s several ways. But wherever he tapped in, he must have used a magneto to ring Mr. Stockbridge up, and afterwards a battery-set to do the talking. All this Westlake says it would be necessary to do, so that the operator would not notice a permanent signal on the board.”

“What was his object?” asked Nichols.

“To cover himself. He first disconnected the wires and waited till I sent for a trouble-man. Frosby, or Frisby, was sent. The trouble-man took his place. He came here and looked the place over. He lied to Mr. Stockbridge and I when he told us about that tall German in the alley. If there was such a man there before the snow froze we would have his footprints.”

“You haven’t them?” asked Loris.

“No. Delaney has a set made by this trouble-hunter when he was at the junction-box. This must have been the time he either cut the connections so that I would send for him, or it was the time when he called up and threatened Mr. Stockbridge with death within twelve hours. You remember that the telephone company have no record of the call. Now the next call––”

“Was there another?” the girl asked.

“Yes—to your father at or about the moment he died. That was from the Grand Central Station at Forty-second Street. There’s a good record of that. Your father knocked the telephone down when he dropped dead. The operator noticed that the connection was open and put on the howler. The record is clear on that.”

“But what is all this twisting and turning for?”

“To throw us off, Miss Stockbridge. We’re dealing with a crafty, cunning mind. This mind took the extreme precaution of connecting two booths at Grand Central so that a man in Sing Sing could talk to your father without leaving a record at the Westchester Exchange or at Gramercy Hill Exchange. How this was done I don’t know. It could be done with auxiliary batteries and looping so that the Gramercy Hill operator thought the Westchester call was to a slot booth, while another call from the next booth to this house was really the same connection shunted or looped through. Westlake, vice-president of the telephone company, says that there would be several ways of doing this. He added it would take an expert in telephony.”

“I’m all twisted up, Mr. Drew. I suppose you understand it. But what about that call to-night—the one that frightened me?”

“The man was sure of himself!” said Drew without thinking. “He has his plans made. He figures they will not fail!”

“Oh, you mean––”

“I mean, Miss Stockbridge, that he expects to slay you in the same manner your father was slain. We have this advantage. You are not alone in this room or these rooms. Your father was alone. The murderer will have Mr. Nichols and myself to deal with this time! Be calm.”

“But—I don’t see how he could—get in here?”

“Nor do I. The point is that he got into the library and out again without trace. He had an hour to do his work in. Here, he is running every risk.”

“But he has already been here, Mr. Drew.”

The detective glanced keenly at Nichols, who had shot the statement straight through clean white teeth.

“I know it,” Drew said with a trace of anxiety in his voice. “That is disquieting. But we have searched these rooms and found absolutely no trace of tampering with locks or ventilators or window-catches.”

“Could he climb up here? He might have climbing irons,” added Nichols glancing toward the windows.

“A good porch-climber could do it,” Drew mused, with his eyes sweeping the curtains. “A very good one could. There are only three or four good ones out of prisons. They never go in for murder.”

“Wouldn’t money buy them?” asked Loris. “Mr. Morphy may have retained one—with some of the gold he stole from poor father.”

“Retained,” repeated Drew, turning with sudden intentness. “Retained, is hardly the word, Miss Loris. Hired, is more to the point. Hired assassins are not uncommon. We have the Becker case and the Hope murder. We have––”

Drew allowed his voice to trail to a whisper. “We have,” he declared, “our man! There’s the front door bell! It’s Delaney!”

“You have splendid ears, Mr. Drew.”

“I have to have, Miss Stockbridge. Now,” he added sharply, “you and Mr. Nichols go into the library—the writing room. I think the case is closing. There may be a little excitement if Delaney’s got that fellow. I, for one, am not going to stand much from him. Please go into the other room. That’s right. Stand there, Harry, in case we need a soldier!”

Drew advanced step by step toward the tapestries. He lifted his gun from his hip pocket, examined it with narrowed eyes, then replaced it loosely. He brushed the curtains aside and had the key out, as heavy steps shook the upper stairway and a knock sounded on the panels of the door.

“Who’s there?” asked Drew.

“Delaney, Chief!”

“All right! Just a moment.”

The detective glanced through the slit in the tapestries, saw that Nichols and Loris were across the room, then twisted the butterfly-latch, at the same time he thrust in the flat key and turned the lock.

The door swung open. Delaney’s huge bulk blocked the way. He half turned, cursed savagely, and clutched a pipe-stem neck with rude fingers. “Come along, you!” he boomed. “Get in there!”

The form of a man hurtled by Drew, fell and rose, then fell again beyond the tapestries in the center of the sitting room. Drew, like some lithe cat, was over him with a drawn gun. Delaney puffed across the rugs and tried to speak as the detective leaned and studied the chalk-pale face below shielding cuffed hands which were raised impotently.

“The trouble-man!” exclaimed Loris fearsomely.

A Central Office detective slouched through the door, deposited a kit of lineman’s tools on the floor near the tapestries, then retired discreetly.

“It’s him!” said Drew. “Please get back, Miss Stockbridge. We’re going to fix this fellow.”

“Oh, please don’t strike him.”

“Please—Miss Stockbridge. I’ll promise nothing in this connection. This is the man who foully murdered your father.”

Loris shrank back and against Nichols’ extended arm. Drew glanced at her with swift concern. He dropped his eyes to the man at his feet. “What happened?” he asked Delaney. “Has this fellow said anything? Done any talking?”

Delaney glared at the trouble-man. “Never a word has he said, Chief. He’s a clam. But––”

“What’s that? Go on, Delaney!”

“Why, Chief, I wouldn’t have brought him here if he hadn’t said to Morphy over the ’phone that ’it’ was fixed in her room. Now what does he mean by that ’it’?”

“We’ll find out!” declared Drew, dropping to the prisoner’s side.