music. Horace Endicott hated the
practising of the art, much as he loved the opera. It was all very
sweet, just what the detective would have looked for, beautiful to see.
He could have lingered in the rooms and speculated on that secret and
manly life, whose currents were so feebly but shiningly indicated in
little things. It occurred to him that copies of the daguerreotypes,
Arthur at fourteen and his father at twenty-five, would be of service in
the search through California. He spoke of it to Judy.

"Sure that was done years ago," said Judy cautiously. "Anne Dillon
wouldn't have it known for the world, ye see, but I know that she sint a
thousand o' thim to the polis in California; an' that's the way she kem
across the lad. Whin he found his mother shtill mournin' him, he wrote
to her that he had made his pile an' was comin' home. Anne has the pride
in her, an' she wants all the world to believe he kem home of himself,
d'ye see? Now kape that a secret, mind."

"And do you never let on what I've been telling you," said Curran
gravely. "It may come to nothing, and it may come to much, but we must
be silent."

She had given her word, and Judy's word was like the laws of the Medes
and Persians. Curran rejoiced at the incident of the daguerreotypes,
which anticipated his proposed search in California. Vainly however did
he describe the result of his inquiry for Edith. She would have none of
his inferences. He must try to entrap Anne Dillon and the priest, and
afterwards he might scrape the surface of California.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE NERVE OF ANNE.

Curran laid emphasis in his account to his wife on the details of
Arthur's rooms, and on the photographs which had helped to discover the
lost boy in California. Edith laughed at him.

"Horace Endicott invented that scheme of the photographs," said she.
"The dear clever boy! If he had been the detective, not a stupid like
you! I saw Arthur Dillon in church many times in four years, and I tell
you he is not a Catholic born, no matter what you saw in his rooms. He's
playing the part of Arthur Dillon to the last letter. Don't look at me
that way, Dick or I'll scratch your face. You want to say that I am
crazy over this theory, and that I have an explanation ready for all
your objections."

"I have nothing to say, I am just working on your lines, dearie," he
replied humbly.

"Just now your game is busy with an affair of the heart. He won't be too
watchful, unless