mistake."

"I see," said Bristow.

He returned to his porch and sat down. He went over all that the father
of the dead woman had told him. So far as he could see, it had only
served the purpose of strengthening the case against Morley. Let it be
discovered that Maria had known Morley at the time of the Atlantic City
affair, and the case would be fixed, irrefutable. And Braceway would
win out.

Of course, there was still one chance. There was the bare possibility
that Morley had gone to No. 5 to murder Enid if he did not get more money
from her, and that he had been frustrated by the fact that the negro
Perry had forestalled him and done the murder first. Having advanced it,
Bristow did not care to abandon the theory that Perry was the guilty man.

An automobile whirled up Manniston Road and stopped in front of No. 9.
His physician, Dr. Mowbray, sprang from the car and up the steps.

"Good morning, doctor!" the patient called out cheerily.

"Hello!" answered Mowbray crustily. "But what's the big idea in your
trying to do a Sherlock Holmes in this murder case?"

The doctor was overbearing and opinionated. He had many patients, who
were in the habit of knotowing to him and obeying his instructions
implicitly. It was something which he required.

"Sit down," invited Bristow. "I'm not doing any Sherlock Holmes stuff,
but I thought I ought to help out if I could."

"Well, you can't!" snapped Mowbray, with quick, nervous gestures. "You'll
be in your grave before you know it. You can't stand this." He shot out
his hand and produced his watch with the celerity of a sleight-of-hand
performer. "Let me feel your pulse."

Bristow surrendered his wrist to the professional fingers.

"Just what I thought--twenty beats too fast. And your respiration's a
crime. Have you had any rest at all, today or yesterday?"

"Not much, doctor."

Mowbray glowered at him.

"Well, you'll have to have it! You ought to be in bed this minute. If you
don't carry out my instructions, I'll drop the case. You know that."

"I'm sorry, doctor, but I can't spend my time in bed now," Bristow said
as persuasively as he could.

"I'd like to know why! Why? Why?"

"I'm going to Washington tomorrow, although that's a secret. I merely
confide it to you in a professional way, and----"

"Going to Washington! Man, you're mad--mad! You'll have a hemorrhage or
something, and die--die, I tell you!"

"Nevertheless," Bristow insisted, "I must go."

"Abo