ion the cave that was reputed
to have sheltered the legendary monk. It was Miss Ocky's suggestion
that in the haunts of the old monk they might come upon some traces of
the new, if that imaginative imitator had carried his masquerade to the
extent of using his predecessor's quarters, and Creighton, without the
flutter of an eyelash, agreed that nothing was more likely. They found
the cave--or some cave--but nothing else. Their disappointment weighed
lightly upon them, and the detective enjoyed the day with all the
artless abandon of a schoolboy playing hooky.

Even more significant than the picnic was the _pilau_. Miss Ocky had
described this supposedly delectable dish to Creighton at some length,
and the next day was impelled to possess herself of the kitchen and
compose a _pilau_ such as she swore appeared daily on the tables of the
first epicures of Constantinople. However that might be, affairs are
approaching a crisis when a woman is seized with a desire to
demonstrate her culinary accomplishments to a man.

The _pilau_ was an amazing dish. At table with them during those days
was a very pale, very thin young man with gold pince-nez, fair hair and
a painfully self-effacing manner, who had been quartered on the house
by Judge Taylor for the purpose of documenting a vast accumulation of
papers in Simon Varr's study. He took a mouthful of the pilau, started
slightly, and took a second to make sure his senses had not deceived
him about the first. Ten minutes later, the closest approach to any
emotion that he ever revealed was visible on his face as Creighton sent
back his plate for a third helping.

If Miss Ocky noticed his tactless expression of awe--and she rarely
missed anything so obvious--it probably did nothing to raise the young
man in her esteem. She frankly disliked him.

"That Merrill!" she grumbled to Creighton when they were by themselves
after dinner. "A perfect imposition on the part of Judge Taylor! Of
course I couldn't very well refuse under the circumstances, but I'll be
glad when we lose him!"

"He must have nearly finished his work," Creighton consoled her.
"After all, he's harmless. Why does he annoy you?"

"I don't know," was the conclusively feminine reply. "He just does."

On the afternoon of the eleventh day after the death of Simon Varr,
Creighton had a chat with Jason Bolt in the office of the tannery that
was in no-wise remarkable except for the odd timeliness of the
dete