and
four? The house is the residence of a Mrs. Culpin, widow of
one of my Yard men who was killed last autumn. I am wiring her
to expect you. But, knowing your reluctance in the matter of
any clue to your identity being circulated, I have given you
the name you adopted in the Bawdrey affair: "George Headland."
I have also taken the same precaution with regard to Captain
Morrison, leaving you to disclose your identity or not, as
you see fit, after you have interviewed him and the other
persons connected with this extraordinary affair.

Yours, etc.,

MAVERICK NARKOM.

Cleek did not even glance at the afternoon paper which Mrs. Culpin had
so considerately left him. Instead, he walked to the open window,
through which the summer sunshine was streaming, and, with his hands
loosely clasped behind his back, stood looking out thoughtfully at the
groups of merry children who were romping on the not far distant common
and making the air melodious with their happy laughter. And so he was
still standing when, some ten or a dozen minutes later, the door behind
him opened and Narkom walked into the room.

"Well, here I am at last, you see, my dear fellow," said the
superintendent, crossing the floor and shaking hands with him. "Ripping
day, isn't it? What are you doing, admiring the view or taking stock of
Mrs. Culpin's roses?"

"Neither. I was speculating in futures," replied Cleek, glancing back at
the sunlit common, and then glancing away again with a faintly audible
sigh. "How happy, how care-free they are, those merry little beggars,
Mr. Narkom. What you said in your letter set my thoughts harking
backward, and ... I was wondering what things the coming years might
hold for them and for their parents. At one time, you know, that fellow
Philip Bawdrey was as innocent and as guileless as any of those little
shavers; and yet in the after years he proved a monster of iniquity, a
beast of ingratitude, and---- Oh, well, let it pass. He paid, as
thankless children always do pay under God's good rule. I wonder what
his thoughts were when his last hour came."

"It did come, then?"

"Yes. I had a letter from Mrs. Bawdrey the other day. News had just come
of his death--from Bright's disease, of course--in Buenos Ayres. His
father never knew of his guilt; never will know now, thank God! He
mourned bitterly,