has been burnt. You hurry along
home. Be at the office no later than nine. I'll keep on down Fifth
Avenue to the Flatiron Building. I want to walk and clear my head. I'll
get some coffee, pie and rolls, at an all-night restaurant. I'll take
time for a shave, shine and shampoo. Perhaps I'll jump into a Turkish
bath to finish up and get ready for work."

"You're not going to bed at all?"

"Not until I find out who murdered Stockbridge!"

"Or how he was murdered?" said Delaney, with a puzzled frown as he
turned to go.

"If I get the murderer, I'll find out how he did it!" snapped Drew,
with a parting glance.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"TANGLED WIRES"

It was five minutes before nine when Delaney reached the ornate
entrance to the skyscraper wherein were the offices of Drew's Agency.

He wandered into the express elevator, yawned a "eighteen, out" signal
to the elevator pilot and stepped from the cage with the general air of
a man who had spent a hard night without getting anywhere in
particular.

Stopping in the operatives' room for a few minutes, he picked up scraps
of news concerning the case at Stockbridge's. There was a report,
moreover, that an extra was expected by ten o'clock. The air of
desertion about the suite told Delaney plainer than words that most of
the operatives were upon the case. The entire corps, with few
exceptions, had been working hard while he slept. The telephone-girl
and the assistant-manager, Harrigan, wound up each of his questions by
a nod or a jerk of the thumb toward the inner office where Drew was
sitting like a spider in a web which was being spun about the case at
hand.

Delaney yawned, braced himself with a drink of ice water drawn from an
inverted-bottle, and stepped toward Drew's door. He knocked with tired
knuckles. He pressed forward as he heard a hearty: "Come in!"

The operative eyed his Chief with sovereign amazement. Drew looked as
fresh as a daisy. There was a pink tinge upon his olive cheeks. These
cheeks had been close shaven. Oil glistened from the detective's black
hair. His mustache was trimmed and level with his upper lip. His eyes,
as he swung and fastened a clear glance upon Delaney, were almost too
bright. They were like the hectic fires of an inner furnace.

Delaney searched about the room. He lifted one foot and then the other
with a tired motion. He leaned against a filing-case like a heavy dray
horse which had come to a final stop. He yawned behind his b