ce, and an Irish smile. The young man's nimble glance
followed Granice's.

"Sure of the number, are you?" he asked briskly.

"Oh, yes--it was 104."

"Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up--that's certain."

He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick
and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of
tottering tenements and stables.

"Dead sure?" he repeated.

"Yes," said Granice, discouraged. "And even if I hadn't been, I know the
garage was just opposite Leffler's over there." He pointed across the
street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words
"Livery and Boarding" were still faintly discernible.

The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. "Well, that's
something--may get a clue there. Leffler's--same name there, anyhow. You
remember that name?"

"Yes--distinctly."

Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the
interest of the Explorer's "smartest" reporter. If there were moments
when he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it
seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter
McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired
him with an exquisite sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the
case at once, "like a leech," as he phrased it--jumped at it, thrilled
to it, and settled down to "draw the last drop of fact from it, and
had not let go till he had." No one else had treated Granice in that
way--even Allonby's detective had not taken a single note. And though
a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized official,
nothing had been heard from the District Attorney's office: Allonby had
apparently dropped the matter again. But McCarren wasn't going to drop
it--not he! He positively hung on Granice's footsteps. They had spent
the greater part of the previous day together, and now they were off
again, running down clues.

But at Leffler's they got none, after all. Leffler's was no longer
a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between
sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a
hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a
blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of Flood's garage across
the way--did not even remember what had stood there before the new
flat-house began to rise.

"Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I've seen harder jobs done,"
said McCarre