shed and
undismayed.

"Why," screamed the _Standard_, in a perfect frenzy of letter press,
"did Miss Edyth Vale visit Hume on the night of the murder?"

The girl's name had crept into the paper on the day before; with each
edition it appeared in larger type; and that afternoon the _Standard_
was printing it in red ink. Allan Morris was not neglected; on the
contrary, he figured a very close second to his betrothed in the
types.

"_Where is Allan Morris?_"

One paper asked this question perhaps fifty times on each page. It
peered at one in square, heavy-faced type from the bottoms of columns
and between articles. There were interviews with his clerks; the
opinions of his stenographer were given in full, together with her
portrait; and what his man servant had to say was treated as being of
great consequence.

Another sheet, which made a point of appealing to the tastes of the
vast foreign element of the city, grew very indignant as to the arrest
of Antonio Spatola.

"Why," it inquired, "is this man detained and no attempt made to take
those higher up into custody? If the Police Department is so ready to
incarcerate a poor musician, why should it hesitate upon the threshold
of the rich man's mansion?--or the rich woman's, for the matter of
that?"

This item incensed Pendleton beyond measure; he threw the paper aside
and stormed up and down the room.

"Of all the blatant wretched twaddle I ever did read," he exclaimed,
"this is positively the worst. Why, the rag would have the police
arrest Edyth--arrest her for--"

"Well," demanded a sharp, aggressively pitched voice, "what for you
make-a da blame, eh? Da cops pinch-a Spatola, and for why, eh? Because
he's da wop, da Ginney, da Dago and got-a no friends."

At the first word Pendleton had whirled about in astonishment, and
faced the speaker, who stood in the doorway, pointing with one hand in
the attitude of melodrama.

"Well," asked the young man, "who the deuce are you?"

By way of an answer the other burst into a laugh that showed his
brilliant teeth; then he threw off his battered soft hat and gayly
colored handkerchief, after which he sank into the chair which
Pendleton had lately vacated.

"Pen," said he, in an altered voice, "if you appreciate my friendship
at all, give me one of the blackest cigars in the case over there."

Pendleton stared for a moment; then a grin crept over his face and he
said:

"Oh, it's you, is it?" He went to the cabine