reading-matter. He volunteered nothing as to his
identity, and the guards said that a thorough search of the captive's
clothing had disclosed nothing incriminating. He had three hundred
dollars in currency (this was to cover Elsie's bribe money, I
conjectured), a handkerchief, a cigarette-case, and a box of matches. I
directed that he be well fed and given all the reading-matter he
wanted, and hurried on to catch my train.

The futility of my errand struck me hard as I felt the city surging
round me. Without a clew to work on, I was utterly unlikely to find the
two women, and even if I should stumble upon them, in what way could I
explain my conduct in following them? I was visited also by the
discouraging thought that New York might not, after all, be their
destination.

Flynn was a capable but cautious driver, and they would hardly reach
town before five o'clock. I took a room at the Thackeray Club and
pondered carefully whether, in spite of my misgivings, I hadn't better
see Torrence and tell him all that had happened since his call on Mrs.
Bashford. If there was any chance of doing the wrong thing in any matter
not prescribed in the laws governing the administration of estates, he
would be sure to do it; but I was far from satisfied with the results of
my own management of affairs at Barton. I finally called up the trust
company and learned that Torrence was in Albany attending the trial of a
will case and might not be in town for a couple of days. His secretary
said he had instructions to wire my daily report to Albany. I told him
there had been no developments at Barton, and went out and walked the
Avenue. Inquiries at hotels large and small occupied me until seven
o'clock. No one had heard of a Mrs. Bashford or a Mrs. Farnsworth. My
inspection of the occupants of several thousand automobiles proved
equally fruitless. I ate a lonely dinner at the club and resumed my
search. Hanging about theatre doors, staring at the crowd, is not a
dignified occupation, and by nine o'clock, having seen the most belated
theatre-goers vanish, I was tired and footsore. The flaming sign of
Searles's "Who Killed Cock Robin?" over the door of the "As You Like It"
caught my eye. I bought a seat--the last in the rack--and squeezed into
my place in the middle of the last row. As I had seen the piece at least
a dozen times, its novelty was gone for me, but the laughter of the
delighted audience was cheering. The first act was reaching it