hman!"

"You see," cried Edith. "Already he has cast his spell on you. He
doesn't believe I have found your man, and he won't let you believe it.
Can't you see that this Horace went to the very place where you were
sure he would not go?"

"You cannot tell him now from an Irishman," continued the detective. "He
has an Irish mother, he is a member of Tammany Hall, he is a politician
who depends on Irish voters, he joined the Irish revolutionists and went
over the sea to fight England, and he's in love with an Irish girl."

"Shocking! Horace never had any taste or any sense, but I know he
detested the Irish around Boston. I can't believe it of him. But, as
Colette says truly, he would hide himself in the very place where we
least think of looking for him."

"Theories have come to nothing," screamed Edith, until the lady placed
her hands on her ears. "Skill and training and coolness and all that rot
have come to nothing. Because I hate Arthur Dillon I have discovered
Horace Endicott. Now I want to see your eyes looking at this man, eyes
with hate in them, and with murder in them. They will discover more than
all the stupid detectives in the country. See what hate did for Horace
Endicott. He hated you, and instead of murdering you he learned to
torture you. He hated you, and it made him clever. Oh, hate is a great
teacher! This fool of mine loves Arthur Dillon, because he is a patriot
and hates England. Hate breeds cleverness, it breeds love, it opens the
mind, it will dig out Horace Endicott and his fortune, and enrich us
all."

"La, but you are strenuous," said the lady placidly, but impressed. She
was a shallow creature in the main, and Curran compared his little wife,
eloquent, glowing with feeling, dainty as a flame, to the slower-witted
beauty, with plain admiration in his gaze. She deserves to succeed, he
thought. Sonia came to a conclusion, languidly.

"We must try the eyes of hate," was her decision.

The pursuit of Arthur proved very interesting. The detective knew his
habits of labor and amusement, his public haunts and loitering-places.
Sonia saw him first at the opera, modestly occupying a front seat in the
balcony.

"Horace would never do that when he could get a box," and she leveled
her glass at him.

Edith mentally dubbed her a fool. However, her study of the face and
figure and behavior of the man showed care and intelligence. Edith's
preparation had helped her. She saw a lean, nervous young man,