icit faith
in her truth and purity, or to turn my face like Mary, and fly from what
I could neither comprehend nor reconcile.

Expectant of difficulty, I started next morning upon my search for Mr.
Gryce, with strong determination not to allow myself to become flurried
by disappointment nor discouraged by premature failure. My business was
to save Eleanore Leavenworth; and to do that, it was necessary for me to
preserve, not only my equanimity, but my self-possession. The worst
fear I anticipated was that matters would reach a crisis before I could
acquire the right, or obtain the opportunity, to interfere. However, the
fact of Mr. Leavenworth's funeral being announced for that day gave
me some comfort in that direction; my knowledge of Mr. Gryce being
sufficient, as I thought, to warrant me in believing he would wait till
after that ceremony before proceeding to extreme measures.

I do not know that I had any vary definite ideas of what a detective's
home should be; but when I stood before the neat three-story brick house
to which I had been directed, I could not but acknowledge there was
something in the aspect of its half-open shutters, over closely drawn
curtains of spotless purity, highly suggestive of the character of its
inmate.

A pale-looking youth, with vivid locks of red hair hanging straight down
over either ear, answered my rather nervous ring. To my inquiry as to
whether Mr. Gryce was in, he gave a kind of snort which might have meant
no, but which I took to mean yes.

"My name is Raymond, and I wish to see him."

He gave me one glance that took in every detail of my person and
apparel, and pointed to a door at the head of the stairs. Not waiting
for further directions, I hastened up, knocked at the door he had
designated, and went in. The broad back of Mr. Gryce, stooping above a
desk that might have come over in the _Mayflower,_ confronted me.

"Well!" he exclaimed; "this is an honor." And rising, he opened with a
squeak and shut with a bang the door of an enormous stove that occupied
the centre of the room. "Rather chilly day, eh?"

"Yes," I returned, eyeing him closely to see if he was in a
communicative mood. "But I have had but little time to consider the
state of the weather. My anxiety in regard to this murder----"

"To be sure," he interrupted, fixing his eyes upon the poker, though
not with any hostile intention, I am sure. "A puzzling piece of business
enough. But perhaps it is an open