eplies in
monosyllables, then returned the receiver to the hook.

"That was Watson up at Delmore Park," he informed the chief. "Says
Josephine Burden is on her way to the Tombs to visit Beard."

"Josephine Burden!" echoed Manning in undisguised surprise. "The cotton
king's daughter! Why, she's engaged to Lester Ward."

"She may be a messenger for Mrs. Collins, Ward's sister," suggested
Greig.

"Whatever her mission, I'll soon know all about it," asserted Britz.
"I'm going to the Tombs."

On the way to the big, gray City Prison, the detective tried vainly to
account for Josephine Burden's appearance in the case. That only the
most urgent reason would bring her to the Tombs at this critical stage
of the case, was self-evident. The newspapers were devoting columns to
it. The more enterprising yellow journals, whose investigations were
conducted independent of the police, were hinting openly that George
Collins ought to exchange places with Beard in prison. Every new figure
in the mystery, every new development, was being exploited frantically
in the press. Surely Josephine Burden was not braving the danger of
unwelcome notoriety merely to deliver a message from Mrs. Collins, or
Collins, or Ward. A less conspicuous messenger would have served them
equally well. No. Josephine Burden was on her way to the prison for a
reason intimately associated with herself, a compelling reason, one that
conquered her innate dislike for the newspaper prominence which she was
braving.

At the Tombs Britz held a brief conversation with the warden, after
which he was conducted to a cell at the end of a tier, behind the barred
door of which Beard must receive all his visitors save his lawyer. The
detective seated himself on a small, round wooden stool, hidden from
view by the heavy iron door of the cell. But every word of what was said
by anyone standing in the corridor, would come to Britz's ears through
the grating.

Half an hour after Britz was locked in the cell, an automobile drew up
at the curb on the Center street side of the prison and a young woman
alighted. Her slim figure was concealed beneath a long fur coat, her
face shielded by a heavy automobile veil. She approached the guard
behind the barred entrance to the jail with the timorous manner of
persons making their first visit to such an institution.

"May I see Mr. Horace Beard?" she inquired weakly.

"Sure, if he'll see you," answered the doorman, unlocking and swinging