est possible temper, but his Latin love of a certain sort of
fun seemed cynical and almost inhuman under the circumstances.

They spoke of the mystery and, upon that subject, the motor boatman
declared himself as quite unable to find any explanation; but, with
respect to Brendon's failure, he did not hesitate to make a sly
allusion. Indeed he hinted at things which Mark was to hear six
months later in a more responsible mouth.

"Above all, what has puzzled me most in this horrid affair is you,
Brendon," declared Giuseppe. "You are a great sleuth, we know; yet
you are no better than the rest of us stupid people before these
happenings and horrors. That made me wonder for a long time; but now
I wonder no longer."

"I'm beat and I own it. I've missed something vital--the keystone of
the arch. But why do you say that you wonder no more? Because you
know me now and find me a very dull dog?"

"Not so, my friend, far from it. You are a very wily, clever dog.
But--well, as we say in Italy, 'if you put a cat into gloves, she
will not catch mice.' You have been in gloves ever since you knew
Madonna was a widow."

"What do you mean?"

"Very well you know what I mean!"

And that was the end of their conversation, for Brendon frowned in
silence and Giuseppe began to slack the engines as they reached the
landing stage.

"Something tells me I shall meet you again, Marco," he said as they
shook hands and prepared to part; and Brendon, who shared that
impression strongly enough, nodded.

"It may be so," he answered.

For a period of several months, however, the detective was not to
hear more of those who had played their small parts in the unsolved
mystery. He was busy enough and in some measure rehabilitated a
tarnished reputation by one brilliant achievement in his finest
manner. But success did not restore his self-respect; and it
diminished in no degree the fever burning at his heart.

Once he received a note from Jenny telling him that she hoped to see
him in London before leaving for Italy; and the fact that she had
decided to join her uncle gave him some peace; but he heard nothing
further and his reply to Mrs. Pendean's communication, which had
come from "Crow's Nest," won no response. Weeks passed and whether
she remained still in Devonshire, was in London, or had gone to
Italy, he could not know, for she did not write again.

He dispatched a long letter in early spring to the care of Albert
Redmayne, but this