Get Kitty Doyle on the
wire, tell her to pack a bag and stand by the telephone in case I need
her."

A minute later he was smiling at the homely face of Jimmy Horton, his
chief of staff.

"Got that notebook, Jimmy!" He slapped the brown package on his desk.
"The story will have to wait. I want you to take this over to Martin
yourself. Leave it there. Ask him to make every effort to bring out
such prints as there may be on the covers. If he finds any, tell him
to compare them with the assortment I sent him from Hambleton last week
and see if any of them check. He is to telephone me his findings here,
or wire them to me at Hambleton if I've gone back. Understand?"

"Perfectly. Does he mail you the book?"

"No. When he's through with it, you go back and get it. Be careful of
it, Jimmy. If it comes to a choice of losing that book or losing your
life, you hang on to the book."

"I get you!" grinned Jimmy. "Doesn't the recovery of this notebook
technically end your commission? We're up to our ears in work here.
Why are you going back to Hambleton?"

"Because--because I darn well choose to!" Creighton writhed inwardly
as he felt his cheeks growing hot. "On your way, young man--you ought
to be under the East River by this time!"

Nevertheless, a certain compunction helped him to put the Varr case,
and even Miss Ocky, out of his mind for the balance of the morning
while he laboriously worked through an accumulation of other matters
that had been waiting for his personal attention. At one o'clock he
went to the basement of the building for a hurried lunch in the
rathskeller, leaving word of his whereabouts with Rose.

It was well that he did so. With the coffee came an extension
telephone that was plugged in at his elbow, and a distant voice spoke
clearly in his ear.

"Merrill speaking. I'm telephoning from the railroad station. You
guessed right, sir. The woman has just left for New York. Seemed a
bit low in her mind--been crying and was still sniffling. She's
wearing a dark-gray cloth dress--black oxfords--small black hat with a
green feather--black fur neck-piece--brown leather suit-case-- What's
that, sir? No, sir!" Mr. Merrill's voice was gently reproachful.
"She's not wearing the suit-case; she's carrying it. Yes, sir. I
thought she acted rather queer--nervous, unhappy and fidgety."

"And no doubt she is! Thank you, Merrill. Good work!"

Creighton hung up the receiver, shook his he