red.

"A friend is a person who acts for another with the same zeal as for
himself, and who has the privilege of doing whatever seems good to him
for that other. Am I to regard myself as thus privileged?"

Winifred, who had never flirted with any young man in her life, fancied
she knew nothing about the rules of the game. She was confused. She
veiled her eyes.

"I don't know--perhaps--we shall see," she stammered. Which was not so
bad for a novice.

They parted with a warm hand-shake. Ten minutes later Carshaw was in a
telephone booth with Clancy's ear at the other end of the wire.

"I have just had a chat with Miss Bartlett," he began.

"Tut, tut! How passing strange!" cackled the detective. "The merest
chance in the world, I'm sure."

"Yes. The miracle came off, so you're entitled to your gibe. But I have
news for you. It's about a dream and a face."

"Gee! Throw the picture on the screen, Mr. Carshaw."

Then Carshaw spoke, and Clancy listened and bade him work more miracles,
even though he might have to report such phenomena to the Psychical
Research Society. Next morning Carshaw, a hard man when offended,
visited Brown, Son & Brown, who had executed a large rebinding order for
his father's library, and Fowle was speedily out of a job. The
ex-foreman knew the source of his misfortune, and vowed vengeance.

In the evening, about half past six, Carshaw was back in One Hundred and
Twelfth Street. There had been no promise of a meeting between him and
Winifred--no promise, but, by those roundabout means by which people in
sympathy understand each other, it was perfectly well understood that
they would happen to meet again that night.

He waited in the street, but Winifred did not appear. The brown-stone
house was in total darkness. An hour passed, and the waiting was weary,
for it was drizzling. But Carshaw waited, being a persistent young man.
At last, after seven, a pang of fear shot through his breast. He
remembered the girl's curious account of the dream-man.

He determined to knock at the door, relying on his wits to invent some
excuse if any stranger opened. But to his repeated loud knockings there
came no answer. The house seemed abandoned. Winifred was gone! Even a
friendly patrolman took pity on his drawn face and drew near.

"No use, sir!" he confided. "They've skipped. But don't let on _I_ told
you. Call up the Detective Bureau!"

CHAPTER X

CARSHAW TAKES UP THE CHASE

"Busy, Mr. Ca