nderstand. I have seen Mr. Tower, and he shares my
opinion."

"Just so, Senator. At any rate, the yacht mystery is almost cleared up."

"I agree with you most heartily."

For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours Senator Meiklejohn looked
contented with life when he hung up the receiver. Therefore, it was well
for his peace of mind that he could not hear Steingall's silent comment
as he, in turn, disconnected the phone.

"That old fox agreed with me too heartily," he thought. "The yacht
mystery is only just beginning--or I'm a Dutchman!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE DREAM FACE

That evening of her dismissal from Brown's, and her meeting with Rex
Carshaw, Winifred opened the door of the dun house in One Hundred and
Twelfth Street the most downhearted girl in New York. Suddenly, mystery
had gathered round her. Something threatened, she knew not what. When
the door slammed behind her her heart sank--she was alone not only in
the house, but in the world. This thought possessed her utterly when the
excitement caused by Carshaw and Fowle, and their speedy arrest, had
passed.

That her aunt, the humdrum Rachel Craik, should have any sort of
connection with the murder of Ronald Tower, of which Winifred had
chanced first to hear on Riverside Drive that morning, seemed the
wildest nonsense. Then Winifred was overwhelmed afresh, and breathed to
herself, "I must be dreaming!"

And yet--the house was empty! Her aunt was not there--her aunt was held
as a criminal! It was not a dream, but only like one, a waking nightmare
far more terrifying. Most of the rooms in the house had nothing but
dust in them. Rachel Craik had preferred to live as solitary in teeming
Manhattan as a castaway on a rock in the midst of the sea.

Winifred's mind was accustomed now to the thought of that solitude
shared by two. This night, when there were no longer two, but only one,
the question arose strongly in her mind--why had there never been more
than two? Certainly her aunt was not rich, and might well have let some
of the rooms. Yet, even the suggestion of such a thing had made Rachel
Craik angry. This, for the first time, struck Winifred as odd.
Everything was puzzling, and all sorts of doubts peeped up in her, like
ghosts questioning her with their eyes in the dark.

When the storm of tears had spent its force she had just enough interest
in her usual self to lay the table and make ready a meal, but not enough
interest to eat it. She sa