ert at disguises.
That's my one great talent, as many will testify. But you will notice
that in undertaking this job I resorted to no disguise at all. You see
me as nature made me--and 't was a poor job, I'm thinking."

"Why were you so careless?"

"It wasn't carelessness; it was premeditated. There's not the slightest
objection to your knowing me. My only business is to keep you in sight,
and I can do that exactly as well as Riordan as I could by disguising
myself."

Mershone had it on his tongue's end to ask what they expected to
discover by shadowing him, but decided it was as well not to open an
avenue for the discussion of Miss Merrick's disappearance. So, finding
he could not bribe the youthful detective or use him in any way to his
advantage, he closed the interview by rising.

"I'm going to my room to write some letters," said he, with a yawn.
"Would you like to read them before they are mailed?"

Again Fogerty laughed in his cheerful, boyish way.

"You'd make a fine detective yourself, Mr. Mershone," he declared, "and
I advise you to consider the occupation. I've a notion it's safer, and
better pay, than your present line."

Charlie scowled at the insinuation, but walked away without reply.
Fogerty eyed his retreating figure a moment, gave a slight shrug and
resumed his newspaper.

Day followed day without further event, and gradually Mershone came to
feel himself trapped. Wherever he might go he found Fogerty on duty,
unobtrusive, silent and watchful. It was very evident that he was
waiting for the young man to lead him to the secret hiding place of
Louise Merrick.

In one way this constant surveillance was a distinct comfort to Charlie
Mershone, for it assured him that the retreat of Louise was still
undiscovered. But he must find some way to get rid of his "shadow," in
order that he might proceed to carry out his plans concerning the girl.
During his enforced leisure he invented a dozen apparently clever
schemes, only to abandon them again as unpractical.

One afternoon, while on a stroll, he chanced to meet the bruiser who had
attacked Arthur Weldon at the Waldorf, and been liberally paid by
Mershone for his excellent work. He stopped the man, and glancing
hastily around found that Fogerty was a block in the rear.

"Listen," he said; "I want your assistance, and if you're quick and sure
there is a pot of money, waiting for you."

"I need it, Mr. Mershone," replied the man, grinning.

"There