and in such a place only, would be found the tokens of those
solitary hours spent by Arthur Cumberland between the time of his
sister's murder and his reappearance the next day. "Had they been spent
in his old haunts or in any of the well-known drinking saloons of the
city, some one would have peached on him before this," he went on, in
silent argument with himself. "He's too well known, too much of a swell
for all his lowering aspect and hang-dog look, to stroll along unnoticed
through any of the principal streets, so soon after the news of his
sister's murder had set the whole town agog. Yet he was not seen till he
struck Garden Street, a good quarter of a mile from his usual resorts."

Here, Sweetwater glanced up at the corner gas-lamp beneath which he
stood, and seeing that he was in Garden Street, tried to locate himself
in the exact spot where this young man had first been seen on the notable
morning in question. Then he looked carefully about him. Nothing in the
street or its immediate neighbourhood suggested the low and secret den he
was in search of.

"I shall have to make use of the list," he decided, and asked the first
passer-by the way to Hubbell's Alley.

It was a mile off. "That settles it," muttered Sweetwater. "Besides, I
doubt if he would go into an _alley_. The man has sunk low, but hardly
so low as that. What's the next address I have? Cuthbert Road.
Where's that?"

Espying a policeman eyeing him with more or less curiosity from the other
side of the street, he crossed over and requested to be directed to
Cuthbert Road.

"Cuthbert Road! That's where the markets are. They're closed at this time
of night," was the somewhat suspicious reply.

Evidently the location was not a savoury one.

"Are there nothing but markets there?" inquired Sweetwater, innocently.
It was his present desire not to be recognised as a detective even by
the men on beat. "I'm looking up a friend. He keeps a grocery or some
kind of small hotel. I have his number, but I don't know how to get to
Cuthbert Road."

"Then turn straight about and go down the first street, and you'll
reach it before the trolley-car you see up there can strike this
corner. But first, sew up your pockets. There's a bad block between you
and the markets."

Sweetwater slapped his trousers and laughed.

"I wasn't born yesterday," he cried; and following the officer's
directions, made straight for the Road. "Worse than the alley," he
muttered; "but