ceived from
you."

"Good! They pulled it off, then! We were only just in time with those
letters we sent out yesterday, Marsh. Show him in at once."

In a few moments a tall, spare figure appeared in the doorway, and
paused an instant before entering. He had a keen, smooth-shaven,
ascetic face, topped with a mass of snow-white hair.

"Come in, Doctor," invited the detective. "I am Henry Blaine. It was
good of you to come in response to my letter. I take it that you have
something interesting to tell me."

The doctor entered and seated himself in the chair indicated by
Blaine. He carried with him a worn, old-fashioned black leather
instrument case.

"I do not know whether what I have to tell you will prove to have any
connection with the matter you referred to in your letter or not, Mr.
Blaine. Indeed, I hesitated about divulging my experience of last
night to you. The ethics of my profession--"

"My profession has ethics, too, Doctor, although you may not have
conceived it," the detective reminded him, quietly. "Even more than
doctor or priest, a professional investigator must preserve inviolate
the secrets which are imparted to him, whether they take the form of a
light under a bushel or a skeleton in a closet. In the cause of
justice, only, may he open his lips. I hold safely locked away in my
mind the keys to mysteries which, were they laid bare, would disrupt
society, drag great statesmen from their pedestals, provoke
international complications, even bring on wars. If you know anything
pertaining to the matter of which I wrote you, justice and the ethics
of your profession require you to speak."

"I agree with you, sir. As I said, I am not certain that my
adventure--for it was quite an adventure for a retired man like
myself, I assure you--has anything to do with the case you are
investigating, but we can soon establish that. Do you recognize the
subject of this photograph?"

The doctor drew from his pocket a small square bit of cardboard, and
Blaine took it eagerly from him. One glance at it was sufficient, and
it was with difficulty that the detective restrained the exclamation
of triumph which rose to his lips. Upon the card was mounted a tiny,
thumbnail photograph of a face--the face of Ramon Hamilton! It was
more like a death-mask than a living countenance, with its rigid
features and closed eyes, but the likeness was indisputable.

"I recognize it, indeed, Doctor. That is the man for whom I am
se