aper when a melody sweeps through his brain.
The writer claimed that the world had lost thousands of inspirations
because of this, and to prevent further loss, he proffered an
invention--a system of--so to speak--musical shorthand."

A sullen look of suspicion came into Spatola's face; he regarded the
speaker from under lowered brows.

"Perhaps you don't quite understand the value of such an invention,"
proceeded Ashton-Kirk. "But if you had a knowledge of stenography, and
the short cuts it--"

But the Italian interrupted him brusquely.

"I know nothing of such things," said he, "and what is more I don't
want to know anything of them." Then in a sharp, angry tone, he added:
"What do you want of me? I am not acquainted with you. Why am I
annoyed like this? Is it always to be so--first one and then another?"

At this sudden display of resentment, the turnkey approached.

"I will go back to my cell," Spatola told him, "and please do not
bring me out again. My nerves are bad. I have been worried much of
late and I can't stand it."

The turnkey looked at Ashton-Kirk, who nodded his head. And, as
Spatola was led gesticulating away, Pendleton said in a low tone of
conviction:

"I tell you, Kirk, there's your man. Besides the other things against
him, he knows German."

"But what of the phonographic signs?"

"He knows them also. His manner proved it. As soon as you mentioned
shorthand he became suspicious and showed uneasiness and anger. I tell
you again," with an air, of finality, "he's your man."

CHAPTER XIII

A NEW LIGHT ON ALLAN MORRIS

From the City Hall the car headed for Christie Place once more; it
halted some half dozen doors from Hume's and the occupants got out.

The first floor was used by a dealer in second-hand machinery, but at
one side was a long, dingy entry with a rickety, twisting flight of
stairs at the end. Ashton-Kirk rang the bell here, and while they
waited a man who had been seated in the open door of the machine shop
got up and approached them.

He wore blue overalls and a jumper liberally discolored by plumbago
and other lubricants; a short wooden pipe was held between his teeth,
and a cloth cap sat upon the back of his head.

"Looking up the Dago?" asked he with a grin. He jerked a dirty thumb
toward the stairs.

Ashton-Kirk nodded; the man took the wooden pipe from his mouth, blew
out a jet of strong-smelling smoke and said:

"I knowed he'd put a knife or something i