n some way to blame for
what has happened," he told himself.

Instantly the question popped into his mind: "Does she know more than
she cares to tell?" He thought of the wireless equipment which had been
removed from the wrecked car before the reporters had arrived. The
laborer would hardly do that without orders from someone. Who had that
someone been? The millionaire had denied all knowledge of the radiophone
messages. Curlie believed that he had told the truth. Here was an added
mystery. He was revolving this in his mind when the girl spoke:

"It must be very interesting listening in."

"Listening in?" Curlie feigned ignorance of her meaning.

"Yes, isn't that what you do? Listen in on radio all the time?"

Curlie started. How did she know?

"Why, yes, since you've asked, that is my work."

"Where--where--" she hesitated, "is your station?"

"That," smiled Curlie, "is a state secret; very few know where it is."

"Oh!" she breathed. "A mystery?"

Curlie nodded.

"Something like that."

"I love mysteries," she whispered. "I love to unravel them. Some day I
shall surprise you. I shall come walking into that secret room of
yours." There was a look on her face that he had not seen there before.
It was disturbing. It spoke of a quality which, he concluded, she had
inherited from her father, the quality of firmness and determination,
which had made him great.

"I--I'd rather you wouldn't try," he almost stammered.

"Oh! here we are," she exclaimed, "at the library."

Leaping out of the car she led the way up the broad steps of an
imposing gray stone structure.

"Down this way," she whispered, as if awed by the vast fund of knowledge
stowed away between those walls. Without further words they made their
way within.

Ten minutes later they were together bending over a great pile of
ancient maps. Done on sheepskin and vellum, gray and brown with age, yet
with colors as bright as on the day they were drawn, these maps spoke of
an age that was gone and of a map-making art that is lost forever.

"Look at this one!" exclaimed the girl. "The date's on it--1450. Made
before the days of Columbus. And look! It is like the one Vincent had
the photograph of; the most like of any."

"Yes, but not the same," said Curlie. "See, those strangely shaped
islands in the lower, right-hand corner are not on it; neither are the
cherubs blowing to imitate the wind."

"That's true," said the girl in a disappointed tone, "I h