the notes of a printed score, were interspersed between the
rest, and moreover only the treble clef had been used.

"Oh, Lord!" he groaned to himself. "It's another cryptogram, and I
don't believe Blaine himself will be able to solve this one!"

He stared long and uncomprehendingly at it; then with a sigh of
baffled interest he folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket.
As he did so, there came a sudden sharp report from outside, the
tinkle of a broken window pane, and a bullet, whistling past his ear,
embedded itself in the wall behind him!

Instinctively Morrow flung himself flat upon the floor, but no second
shot was fired. Instead, he heard the muffled receding of flying
footsteps from the sidewalk, and an excited cry or two as neighboring
windows were raised and curious heads were thrust out.

Hastily extinguishing the lamp, Morrow felt his way to the kitchen,
where he pocketed Caliban with scant ceremony and departed swiftly the
way he had come, through the pantry window. By scaling a back-yard
wall or two he found an alley leading to the street; and making a
detour of several blocks, he returned to his lodgings, to find Mrs.
Quinlan waiting in great excitement to relate her version of the
revolver shot.

Morrow listened with what patience he could muster, and then handed
Caliban over to her mercy.

"It's Miss Brunell's cat," he explained. "You'll take care of it for a
day or two, at least, won't you? I expect to hear from her soon, and
I'd like to be able to restore it to her."

"Well, I ain't what you would call crazy about cats," the landlady
returned, somewhat dubiously, "but I couldn't let it die in this cold.
I'll keep it, of course, till you hear from Emily. Where did you find
it?"

"Over in their yard," he responded, with prompt mendacity. "I was in
the neighborhood and heard the shot fired, so I ran in to have a look
around and see if anyone was hurt, and I came across this poor little
chap yowling on the doorstep. I won't want any supper to-night, Mrs.
Quinlan. I'm going out again."

Within the hour, Morrow presented himself at Henry Blaine's office.
This time he did not wait to be told that the famous investigator
was out, but writing something on a card, he sent it in to the
confidential secretary.

In a moment he was admitted, to find Blaine seated imperturbably
behind his desk, fingering the card his young operative had sent in to
him.

"What is it, Guy?" he asked, not unkindly.