in sheer good nature
and confidence in his strength, despite the fact he had waited a week
for expected employment, and nothing at present loomed upon the horizon.

His past, in a small Ohio town, was behind him. He blotted it out
without regret--or so at least he said to himself--even as to all the
gilded hopes which had once seemed his all upon earth. If his heart
was not whole, no New York eye should see its wounds--and the healing
process had begun.

He was part of the vast machine about him, the mighty brain, as it
were, of the great American nation.

He paced the length of his room, and glanced at the door. The
half-painted sign on the frosted glass was legible, reversed, as the
artist had left it:

JEROLD --------
CRIMINOLOGIST.

He had halted the painter himself on the name, as the lettering
appeared too fanciful--not sufficiently plain or bold.

While he stood there a shadow fell upon the glass. Someone was
standing outside, in the hall. As if undecided, the owner of the
shadow oscillated for a moment--and disappeared. Garrison, tempted to
open the door and gratify a natural curiosity, remained beside his
desk. Mechanically his hand, which lay upon a book entitled "A
Treatise on Poisons," closed the volume.

He was still watching the door. The shadow returned, the knob was
revolved, and there, in the oaken frame, stood a tall young woman of
extraordinary beauty, richly though quietly dressed, and swiftly
changing color with excitement.

Pale in one second, crimson in the next, and evidently concentrating
all her power on an effort to be calm, she presented a strangely
appealing and enchanting figure to the man across the room. Bravery
was blazing in her glorious brown eyes, and firmness came upon her
manner as she stepped inside, closed the door, and silently confronted
the detective.

The man she was studying was a fine-looking, clean-cut fellow,
gray-eyed, smooth-shaven, with thick brown hair, and with a
gentleman-athlete air that made him distinctly attractive. The
fearless, honest gaze of his eyes completed a personal charm that was
undeniable in his entity.

It seemed rather long that the two thus stood there, face to face.
Garrison candidly admiring in his gaze, his visitor studious and
slightly uncertain.

She was the first to speak.

"Are you Mr. Jerold?"

"Jerold Garrison," the detective answered. "My sign is unfinished.
May I offer you a chair?"

His caller s