something more than the
desire for vengeance which decided him to risk everything on
immediate action.

His plan was very simple. Sometimes a messenger-boy brought a note to
her studio. And Blizzard had observed that Barbara's invariable habit
with notes was first to read them, and then to burn them. She never tore
them into pieces and threw them into the fireplace. She struck a match,
lighted them at one corner, and saw to it that they were entirely
consumed. When Barbara had finished with a note, or a circular, or a
letter, Sherlock Holmes himself could not have recovered the contents or
the name of the sender. Banking on this habit, Blizzard wrote Barbara a
note and sent it to her father's house by a man he could trust. She
received the note at six o'clock, while she was resting prior to
dressing and dining out. It read as follows:

81 Marrow Lane.

DEAR MISS FERRIS:

My affairs don't seem to be prospering here, so I am going
away. I am sorry the Bust isn't finished. You will be
disappointed. I am leaving at 8 o'clock for the West. I have
enjoyed sitting for you. I wish you all the success and
happiness you deserve.

Very truly yours,

BLIZZARD.

Her mind working very rapidly, Barbara rose at once, and quite
unconsciously, so strong was habit in her, struck a match, set the
beggar's note on fire, threw it into the fireplace, and watched it burn
to ashes. On the way to the fireplace she pressed a button to summon her
maid. When this one came, Barbara, already out of her dressing-gown,
spoke imperatively:

"I am going out. I want a taxi called at once. Then come back and help
me dress."

But when the maid returned there was little for her to do. Barbara was
in a hurry.

She found a taxi waiting at the door. She glanced at the driver--he was
not one of those who usually drove her.

"Do you know where Marrow Lane is?"

"Is it near the Brooklyn Bridge, miss?"

"I think so. Marrow Lane, No. 81. You can make inquiries. Hurry."

The strange driver drove skilfully and swiftly down the avenue. Two
thoughts occupied him: the beauty of his fare, and the docility with
which she came to the master's hand when he called.

In Barbara's mind there was but one thought: not that she was going to
visit a disreputable man in a disreputable part of the city, but that
she was going to keep that man in the city and finish her bust of him,
or know the reason why. Fame was in