led them over into Burke's own precinct. He ascended the iron steps of
an old-fashioned house which had once been a splendid mansion in
generations gone by.

"Ah, that's where Lorna is hidden, as sure as you're standing here,
Mary. From what he said no harm has come to her yet. Hurry with me to
the station house, and we'll have the reserves go through that house in
a jiffy."

It took not more than ten minutes for the police to surround the house.
But disappointment was their only reward. Somehow or other the rascals
had received a tip of premonition of trouble; perhaps Shepard was
suspicious of his principals, and wished to move the girl out of their
reach.

The house was empty, except for a few pieces of furniture.

"Look!" cried Mary, as she went through the rooms with Bob. "There is
a handkerchief. She snatched it up. It was one of her own, with the
initials "M. B." in a monogram.

"Lorna has been here," she exclaimed. "I remember handing her that
very handkerchief when we were in the store yesterday."

"What's to be done now?" thought Bobbie. "We had better go up to your
father and tell him what we know--it is not as bad as it might have
been."

"Precious little comfort," sighed Mary, exhausted beyond tears.

They reached the desolate home, and Bob broke the news to the old man.
As Mary poured forth her story of the discovery in Trubus' office, her
father's face lighted with renewed hope.

To their surprise he laughed, softly, and then spoke:

"Mary, my child, my long hours of study and labor on my own invention
have not been in vain. My dictagraph-recorder--this very model here,
which I have just completed shall be put to its first great test to
save my own daughter. Heaven could reward me in no more wonderful
manner than to let it help in the rescue of little Lorna--why did I not
think of it sooner?"

"What shall we do, father?" breathlessly cried Mary.

"Can I help, Mr. Barton?"

"Describe the arrangement of the offices."

Mary rapidly limned the plan of the headquarters of the Purity League.
Her father nodded and his lips moved as he repeated her words in a
whisper.

"I have it now. You must put the instrument under the telephone
switchboard table," he directed. "Pile up a waste-basket, or something
that is handy to keep it out of view. I have already adjusted enough
fresh cylinders to record at least one hour of conversation. This
machine is run by an automatic spring, which