a house in Brooklyn a fine
haul of coiners, dies, presses, and other illicit articles, human and
inanimate, had just been made.

"Ralph V. Voles and his bad man from the West have come back to New York
again," said the chief. "You might give 'em an eye."

"Why on earth doesn't Carshaw marry the girl?" said Clancy.

"I dunno. He's straight, isn't he?"

"Strikes me that way."

"Me, too. Anyhow, let's pick up a few threads. I've a notion that
Senator Meiklejohn thinks he has side-stepped the Bureau."

Clancy laughed. His mirth was grotesque as the grin of one of those
carved ivories of Japan, and to the effect of the crinkled features was
added a shrill cackle. The chief glanced up.

"Don't do that," he said sharply. "You get my goat when you make that
beastly noise!"

These two were beginning again to snap at each other about the Senator
and his affairs, and their official quarrels usually ended badly for the
other fellow.

CHAPTER XVI

WINIFRED DRIFTS

Winifred, pale as death, rose to receive her lover, with that letter in
her hand which made an appointment with her at a house in East Orange; a
letter which she believed to have been written by a dramatic agent, but
which was actually inspired by Senator Meiklejohn. It was the bait of
the trap which should put her once more in the power of Meiklejohn and
his accomplices.

During a few tense seconds the girl prayed for power to play the bitter
part which had been thrust upon her--to play it well for the sake of the
man who loved her, and whom she loved. The words of his mother were
still in her ears. She had to make him think that she did not care for
him. In the last resort she had to fly from him. She had tacitly
promised to do this woeful thing.

Far enough from her innocent mind was it to dream that the visit of
Rex's mother had been brought about by her enemies in order to deprive
her of a protector and separate her from her lover at the very time
when he was most necessary to save her.

Carshaw entered in high spirits. "Well, I have news--" he began. "But,
hello! What's the matter?"

"With whom?" asked Winifred.

"You look pale."

"Do I? It is nothing."

"You have been crying, surely."

"Have I?"

"Tell me. What is wrong?"

"Why should I tell _you_, if anything is wrong?"

He stood amazed at this speech. "Odd words," said he, looking at her in
a stupor of surprise, almost of anger. "Whom should you tell but me?"

This touched