es, will. May God
help him if he doesn't talk to Fosdick!"

"But can't we find out how father was killed?" asked Loris, with tears
glazing over her eyes. "It don't seem--it don't----"

The captain caught Loris about the waist and led her to the divan in
the alcove. She sank down with her face covered with her hands. Soft
sobs, brought to her throat by the memory of the murder, caused Drew to
pace the rugs with alert, nervous strides like a man who would guard
her from some menacing shadow. He went to the ventilators and closed
them slightly. He crossed the room to the radiator-boxes and set them
in an open position. He adjusted a thermostat on the wall, to seventy
degrees. He stood back then and listened with both ears strained for
outside sounds.

Snow sifted across the curtain-drawn panes with a cutting of fine
diamonds against diamonds. A wind whistled and moaned and swirled over
the turrets and towers of the mansion. An echo lifted from the driving
traffic of the Avenue. Below this echo, so faint it seemed like a
murmur of a distant sea, the city throbbed with the shifting of the
whimpering wind. Once it roared. Then afterward there was silence, save
for the sifting snow, and Loris' low, throat choke from welling sorrow.

She sat up finally and dried her eyes. "I should be ashamed of myself,"
she said, brokenly. "I must be brave. I fear something, though. It
seems to be in the room or the air. What is it I fear, Mr. Drew?" Her
question was vague. Her eyes shone hectically bright and strangely
alluring to the detective.

"There's nothing to fear!" he declared with a direct glance. "I'm
armed! Then," he added as an additional encouragement. "Then, Mr.
Nichols is a soldier! You are in safe hands, believe me!"

Harry Nichols bowed politely. "I've got a gun, myself," he admitted
candidly. "It's not that little one, either. It's army regulation. It,
or the ones like it, have been stopping the Huns. I guess we'll take
care of anything that comes up to-night, Mr. Drew. It's getting late,
isn't it?"

The detective glanced at his watch. "I ought to hear from Delaney," he
said, replacing the watch and reaching for a chair. "Delaney is like
old Dobbin--faithful and slow."

Drew sat down, pulled at the knees of his black trousers and rested his
heels on the thick soft pile of a Persian rug. Behind him was the
cheval glass and the telephone stand. Before him, and in the shade of
the silk draperies, Loris' eyes glowed al