probably right." Ferguson crossed the room. "And if he came
back once, he may return again. Come ahead," and he plunged into the
first bedroom. The two men subjected each room to an exhaustive search,
but their labors were their only reward; except for an accumulation
of dust, the apartment was undisturbed. They had reached the
kitchenette-pantry when the gong over their heads sounded loudly, and
Kent, with a muttered exclamation hastened toward the front door of the
apartment. Ferguson, intent on studying the "L" of the building as seen
from the window, was hardly conscious of his departure, and some seconds
elapsed before he turned toward the door. As he gained it, he saw a dark
shape dart down the hall. With a bound Ferguson started in pursuit, and
the next second grappled with the flying man just as the electric lights
went out and they were plunged in darkness.

Suddenly Kent's voice echoed down the hall. "Come here quick, Ferguson!"

There was a note of urgency about his appeal, and Ferguson straining his
muscles until the blood pounded in his temples, threw the struggling man
into a tufted arm-chair which stood by the entrance to the small dining
room, and drawing out his handcuffs, slipped them on securely. "Stay
there," Ferguson admonished his prisoner. "Or there will be worse coming
to you," and he thrust the muzzle of his revolver against the man's
heaving chest to illustrate his meaning; then as Kent called again,
he sped down the hall and brought up breathless at the front door. The
light was still burning in the corridor, though not very brightly, and
he saw Kent hand the grinning messenger boy a shiny quarter. Touching
his battered cap the boy went whistling away. "Tell the elevator boy
to report that a fuse has burned out in Mr. Rochester's apartment,"
Ferguson called after him, and the lad waved his hand as he dashed into
the elevator.

Paying no attention to the detective's call, Kent showed him a white
envelope which bore the simple address:

PHILIP ROCHESTER, ESQ.
THE SARATOGA

"It's the identical envelope I found in your safe," declared Ferguson.

"And which disappeared last night at the Club de Vingt." Kent turned
over the envelope. "See, the red seal."

For a minute the men contemplated the seal with the large distinctive
letter "B" in the center.

"Open the letter, sir," Ferguson urged and Kent, his fingers fairly
trembling, jerked and tore at th