ration. He whirled, he dived for a cigar store and for a
telephone.

"Hello!" he called, after the long wait for connections. "Mr. Mason?
Don't look for me tomorrow--I believe I'll not be there."

"But you haven't given it up?"

"Given up?" Houston laughed with sudden enthusiasm. "No--I've just
started. Put the date off a day or two until I can try something
that's buzzing around in my head. It's a wild idea--but it may work.
If it doesn't, I'll see you Thursday."

Then he turned from the telephone and toward the railroad station.

"One, to New York," he ordered hurriedly through the ticket window.
"I've got time to make that seven-forty, if you rush it."

And the next morning, Barry Houston was in New York, swirling along
Seventh Avenue toward Bellstrand Hospital. There he sought the
executive offices and told his story. "Five minutes later he was
looking at the books of the institution, searching, searching,--at last
to stifle a cry of excitement and bend closer to a closely written page.

"August second," he read. "Kilbane Worthington, district attorney,
Boston, Mass. Acc by Drs. Horton, Mayer and Brensteam. Investigations
into effect of blows on skull. Eight cadavers."

With fingers that were almost frenzied, Houston copied the notation,
closed the book, and hurried again for a taxicab. It yet was only nine
o'clock. It the traffic were not too thick, if the driver were
skilful--

He raced through the gate at Grand Central just as it was closing. He
made the train in unison with the last drawling cry of the conductor.
Then for hours, in the Pullman chair car, he fidgeted, counting the
telegraph posts, checking off the stations as they flipped past the
windows, through a day of eagerness, of excited, racking anticipation.
It was night when he reached Boston, but Houston did not hesitate. A
glance at a telephone book, another rocking ride in a taxicab, and
Barry stood on the veranda of a large house, awaiting the answer to his
ring at the bell. Finally it came.

"Mr. Worthington," he demanded. The butler arched his eyebrows.

"Sorry, but Mr. Worthington has left orders not to be--"

"Tell him that it is a matter of urgent business. That it is something
of the utmost importance to him."

A wait. The butler returned.

"Sorry, sir. But Mr. Worthington is just ready to retire."

"You tell Mr. Worthington," answered Houston in a crisp voice, "that he
either will see me or regret it. T