tleman's."

"Let me see; that makes four lodgers now, doesn't it?" Morrow remarked
thoughtfully, as he toasted his back near the stove. "Peterson, the
shoe clerk; Acker, the photographer; me--and now this old gentleman.
What's his name, by the way?"

"Mr.--Brown." Again there was that obvious hesitation, followed by a
hasty rush of words as if to cover it. "Yes, my house is full now, and
I think I'm mighty lucky, considering the time of year. Just think,
it's most Christmas! The winter's just flyin' along!"

The next morning, from his bed Morrow heard the clinking of china on a
tray as Mrs. Quinlan laboriously carried breakfast upstairs to her new
boarder. Guy rose quickly and dressed, and when he heard her
descending again he flung open his door and met her face to face,
quite as if by accident. She started violently at the sudden encounter
and nearly dropped the tray.

"Land sakes, how you scared me, Mr. Morrow!" she exclaimed. "You're up
earlier than usual. I'll have your breakfast ready in the dining-room
in ten minutes."

She hurried on quickly, but not before the operative's keen eyes had
noted in one lightning glance the contents of the tray. Upon it was a
teapot, as well as one for coffee, and service for two. Peterson and
Acker had both long since gone to their usual day's work. Mrs. Quinlan
had lied, then, after all. She had two new lodgers instead of the
single rheumatic old gentleman she had pictured; two, and one of them
had entered his own room, and from the window fired that shot across
the street at him, as he bent over the lamp in the Brunell cottage. He
had one problematic advantage--it was possible that he had not been
recognized as the intruder in the deserted house. He must contrive by
hook or crook to obtain a glimpse of the mysterious newcomers, and
learn the cause of their interest in the Brunells and their affairs.
They were in all probability emissaries of Paddington's--possibly one
of them was Charley Pennold himself.

At that same moment Henry Blaine sat in his office, receiving the
report of Ross, one of his minor operatives.

"I tried the tobacconist's shop yesterday morning, sir, but there
wasn't any message there for Paddington, and although I waited around
a couple of hours he didn't show up," Ross was saying. "This morning,
however, I tried the same stunt, and it worked. I wasn't any too quick
about it, either, for Paddington was just after me. I strolled in,
asked for a packag