ongside the captain's resolute
face.

The minutes passed with the trio in the same position. The snow sifted
across the cold panes. The wind whined. Suddenly between gusts, Loris
asked point-blankly:

"Do you suspect that man, Morphy?"

"Yes; I do!" said Drew with a snap. "I believe that every single lead
we have points to him. I believe he planned to destroy your father ever
since the day of conviction. I believe----"

"But he is in prison."

"Ah!" said the detective, with bright eyes. "So is his master, Lucifer,
in the lower regions. He's there, but he has a long arm. Morphy's tool
in this affair is probably the telephone repair-man. You saw him. Mr.
Nichols saw him. I saw him. We all agree that he does not look the part
of a scoundrel and a scoundrel's tool. But," Drew paused and spread out
his hands; "but," he continued, "that's the reason he was chosen for
Morphy's murderous work. You can't send a thug into a drawing room--or
a library. You can't cut a sharp slice with a dull tool. This
trouble-hunter is all that the name implies--a hunter of trouble. I
don't doubt that we have the case rounded up, save for bringing him in.
Morphy, we can get at any time. He's in prison and he's getting very
close to the little green door that leads to the electric-chair. One
slip to-night, and we have him!"

"Miss Stockbridge must go south after the funeral," said Nichols. "She
can't be jeopardized! She is nervous and has suffered acutely. I for
one am sorry we let her stay here. It is the place she should not be.
They know where to look for her!"

"They're beat to-night," assured Drew, rising and stretching his arms.
"My! my!" he added, "this is slow, sleepy work. I'd ask for tea, but I
think it's best we stay locked in here. Don't you, Miss Stockbridge?"

"Marie can get some. There's a service-waiter running up to her room.
Suppose I order tea, or coffee, and cakes. It might cheer us up?"

Drew held out a warding arm as Loris rose and started toward the
writing room. "I'll tend to it," he said. "You stay right here close up
to Mr. Nichols. We're taking no chances at all."

The detective parted the portieres and knocked upon the maid's door as
he turned the key with his left hand. He waited as she gave the order
through a silver-plated speaking tube. He heard the service-waiter
rising. He leaned forward and took the tray with a sharp glance about
the maid's room. It was as clean and as neat as a work basket. A French