ewhat vague and unsubstantiated,"
admitted Garrison. "There's a man, it seems, who threatened Hardy
years ago. He has followed Hardy about persistently. Hardy appeared
to fear him greatly, which accounts for his ceaseless roving. This man
may and may not have accomplished some long-planned revenge at
Branchville. He appears to be somewhat mystical, but I felt it my
business to investigate every possible clew."

"Certainly," said Wicks, whose scrutiny of Garrison's face had grown
once more abnormally acute. "What's his name?"

Garrison focused his eyes on the man across the desk incisively.

"Hiram Cleave."

So far as he could see there was not so much as a flicker to show that
his shot had gone home.

Wicks spoke up, no less aggressively than before.

"Where is he now?"

"No one seems to know. I hope to discover--and report."

Wicks rose and took his hat from the desk.

"Except for your negligence in appearing at the office," he said, "you
have done fairly well. Shall you need any help in arresting Durgin?
If you wish it I----"

A knock on the door interrupted. A postman entered, met Garrison as he
was stepping across the floor, and handed him a thin, flat parcel,
crudely wrapped and tied. It was postmarked Rockdale.

Garrison knew it for the photograph--the picture of Cleave for which he
had hoped and waited.

"Wait just a minute, Mr. Wicks," he said, backing toward the door with
intent to keep his man from departing. "This is a letter from a friend
who is helping on the case. Let me look it through. I may have more
to report before you go."

Wicks sat down again.

Garrison remained by the door. He was cutting the string on the
package when a second knock on the glass behind him gave him a start.

He opened the door. A small, rather smiling young man was in the hall.

"Mr. Garrison?" he said. "My name is----"

"How do you do?" Garrison interrupted loudly, having instantly
recognized Foster Durgin, from a strong resemblance to his older
brother, and instantly calling out: "Excuse me a moment, Mr. Wicks,"
stepped out in the hall and closed the door.

"My name is Durgin," said the visitor. "I called before----"

"I know," interrupted Garrison, moving down the hall and speaking in a
voice so low he was certain Wicks could hear nothing, from behind the
door, even should he try. "I've been expecting you. I want you to do
something quickly, before we try to have a talk. I want you t