of the stockholders. It goes back into old Hugh's own
pocket. He has made his title safe!

"In some way poor Clayton has babbled, and they have swept him
from the face of the earth. But for some fatal imprudence, he would
have come into his stolen fortune. And, after my settlement, Hugh
Worthington would have feared to attack Clayton."

In half an hour Mr. John Witherspoon was on his way to Brooklyn.
He had already deposited the two precious articles in the massive
safes of the Hoffman, and he began his weary quest with a glance
at the "Newport Art Gallery," whose Fourteenth Street address was
printed upon the label.

"This remains for a future examination," was Jack's rapid conclusion.
"The picture was procured here within three months, and the shop
looks like a permanent one." A glance at a Directory, in a drug-store,
proved that the Emporium had been there for a year, certainly.

It was four o'clock when the lawyer resolutely rang, the bell at
No. 192 Layte Street. He had consumed an hour in scanning the quiet
exterior of the stately old mansion. The ignoble use of the parlor
frontage as a modiste's shop, attracted him as he vainly waited
for a reply to his repeated ringing.

All that he could gain from a pert shop-girl was the news that the
house was shut up, and that no one lived there.

The judicious use of a two-dollar bill brought as a harvest the
news that it had been used as a private club for men and that it
had been recently closed. "Ask in the saloon--the "Valkyrie"--next
door. They are the landlords," said the girl as she returned to
her ribbons. The acute lawyer, whose years of active practice had
opened his eyes to many of the mysteries of the inside life of New
York, Detroit and Chicago, was not deceived by the decorous white
enamel shutters.

"I have done enough for one day," he mused. "I have kept my temper,
and Ferris suspects nothing. Poor Clayton never betrayed me; he
only betrayed himself. And he has been trapped; BUT BY WHOM? God
alone knows!"

Once safely back in the Hoffman, Jack Witherspoon leisurely dined.
His self-commune had taught him the need of a perfect control of
every faculty. "I will not linger here to embarrass Ferris; but
the Newport Art Gallery, the mysterious woman of 192 Layte Street,
and the picture's secret history shall be my property alone. I will
not betray myself. Arthur Ferris may, perhaps, unbosom himself!"

As the lonely night hours advanced, Witherspoon