musingly. "Louise is so prominent now in the best circles."

"Of course," said the Major, drily; "she's so prominent, ma'am, that no
one can discover her at all! And it's lucky for us the newspapers know
nothing of the calamity. They'd twist the thing into so many shapes that
not one of us would ever again dare to look a friend in the eye."

"I'm sure my darling has been murdered!" declared Mrs. Merrick, weeping
miserably. She made the statement on an average of once to every five
minutes. "Or, if she hasn't been killed yet, she's sure to be soon.
Can't _something_ be done?" That last appeal was hard to answer. They
had done everything that could be thought of. And here it was Tuesday.
Louise had been missing for five days.

CHAPTER XVIII

A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS

The Tuesday morning just referred to dawned cold and wintry. A chill
wind blew and for a time carried isolated snowflakes whirling here and
there. Gradually, as the morning advanced, the flakes became more
numerous, until by nine o'clock an old fashioned snowstorm had set in
that threatened to last for some time. The frozen ground was soon
covered with a thin white mantle and the landscape in city and country
seemed especially forbidding.

In spite of these adverse conditions Charlie Mershone decided to go out
for a walk. He felt much like a prisoner, and his only recreation was in
getting out of the hotel for a daily stroll. Moreover, he had an object
in going abroad to-day.

So he buttoned his overcoat up to his chin and fearlessly braved the
storm. He had come to wholly disregard the presence of the detective who
shadowed him, and if the youthful Fogerty by chance addressed him he was
rewarded with a direct snub. This did not seem to disconcert the boy in
the least, and to-day, as usual, when Mershone walked out Fogerty
followed at a respectful distance. He never appeared to be watching his
man closely, yet never for an instant did Mershone feel that he had
shaken the fellow off.

On this especial morning the detective was nearly a block in the rear,
with the snow driving furiously into his face, when an automobile
suddenly rolled up to the curb beside him and two men leaped out and
pinioned Fogerty in their arms. There was no struggle, because there was
no resistance. The captors quickly tossed the detective into the car, an
open one, which again started and turned into a side street.

Fogerty, seated securely between the two burly fellows,