ke, at Branchville.

"I dropped in to see if by any chance you recall the sale of a box of
cigars some little time ago," he said, and he read off the name of the
brand. "You sold them to a lady--a young lady. Perhaps you remember."

"Oh, yes," agreed the man. "I don't sell many by the box."

"Did anyone else come in while she was here, or shortly after, and buy
some cigars of this same brand?" He awaited the dealer's slow process
of memory and speech with eager interest.

"Y-e-s, I think so," said the man after a pause. "Yes, sure, a small
man. He bought a box just the same. Two boxes in one evening--I don't
do that every day."

"A man, you say--a small man. Was he young?"

"I don't remember very well. He was sick, I think. He had a
handkerchief on his face and his hat was pulled far down."

"But surely you remember whether he was young or not," insisted
Garrison. "Try to think."

A child came in to buy a stick of candy. The dealer attended to her
needs while Garrison waited. When he returned he shook his head.

"So many people come," he said, "I don't remember."

Garrison tried him with a score of questions, but to no avail. He
could add nothing to what he had supplied, and the vagueness that
shadowed the figure of the man had not been illumined in the least.
Beyond the fact that a small man had followed Dorothy inside the store
and purchased the duplicate of her cigars, there was nothing of
significance revealed.

Disappointed, even accusing himself of dullness and lack of resources
in the all-important discovery of his unknown man's identity. Garrison
went out upon the street. He felt himself in a measure disloyal to
Dorothy in his growing conviction that young Foster Durgin was guilty.
He was sorry, but helpless. He must follow the trail wheresoever it
led.

He ate a belated luncheon, after which he went to his office.

There were two letters lying on the floor, neither one addressed in a
hand he knew. The first he opened was from Theodore. It was brief:

DEAR SIR:

If you can find the time to grant me an interview, I feel confident I
can communicate something of interest.

Yours truly,
THEODORE ROBINSON.

His street address was written at the top.

Garrison laid the letter on the desk and opened the second. If the
first had occasioned a feeling of vague wonder in his breast, the other
was far more potently stirring. It read:

DEAR MR. GARRISON:

I called once,