f?"

"He'll be suspicious of everybody who tries to make friends with him
now; only a little more so with me; that's all. But I've got to meet
that, and I'll do it by being, temporarily, of course, exactly the man
I seem. My health will not be good for the next few weeks, I'm sure of
that. But I'll be a model workman, neat and conscientious with just a
suspicion of dash where dash is needed. He knows the real thing when he
sees it, and there's not a fellow living more alive to shams. I won't be
a sham. I'll be it. You'll see."

"But the doubt. Can you do all this in doubt of the issue?"

"No; I must have confidence in the end, and I must believe in his guilt.
Nothing else will carry me through. I must believe in his guilt."

"Yes, that's essential."

"And I do. I never was surer of anything than I am of that. But I'll
have the deuce of a time to get evidence enough for a grand jury. That's
plainly to be seen, and that's why I'm so dead set on the business. It's
such an even toss-up."

"I don't call it even. He's got the start of you every way. You can't
go to his tenement; the janitor there would recognise you even if he
didn't."

"Now I will give you a piece of good news. They're to have a new janitor
next week. I learned that yesterday. The present one is too easy. He'll
be out long before I'm ready to show myself there; and so will the
woman who took care of the poor washerwoman's little child. I'd not have
risked her curiosity. Luck isn't all against us. How does Mr. Challoner
feel about it?"

"Not very confident; but willing to give you any amount of rope.
Sweetwater, he let me have a batch of letters written by his daughter
which he found in a secret drawer. They are not to be read, or
even opened, unless a great necessity arises. They were written for
Brotherson's eye--or so the father says--but she never sent them; too
exuberant perhaps. If you ever want them--I cannot give them to you
to-night, and wouldn't if I could,--don't go to Mr. Challoner--you must
never be seen at his hotel--and don't come to me, but to the little
house in West Twenty-ninth Street, where they will be kept for you,
tied up in a package with your name on it. By the way, what name are you
going to work under?"

"My mother's--Zugg."

"Good! I'll remember. You can always write or even telephone to
Twenty-ninth Street. I'm in constant communication with them there, and
it's quite safe."

"Thanks. You're sure the Superintendent