trance, and, somehow or other, I
felt that at the sound of the opening of our door he hastened his pace.

Kennedy walked quickly around the circle of box stalls until he came
again to Lady Lee. He entered the stall and looked the famous racer over
carefully. I was wondering what, if anything, he expected to find, when,
almost before I knew it, I saw him jab a little hypodermic needle into
her neck and withdraw a few drops of blood.

Lady Lee reared and snorted, but Kennedy managed to quiet her. He
returned the hypodermic, with these few drops of blood, carefully into
its case again, and we made our way back to the office.

A few minutes later, the drone of Broadhurst's car told us that Murchie
had returned. We resumed the talk about horses, upstairs in Murchie's
own apartment, which consisted of living-rooms, a library, and bath. It
was a luxuriously appointed place, in keeping with the tastes of its
occupant. We sat down in the library.

I was quite interested in looking about me. For one thing, Murchie's
idea of art seemed to be a curious blending of horse and woman. There
were pictures of all the string of Broadhurst winners, interspersed with
Venuses and actresses.

On a little table I noticed, at length, a colored photograph in an oval
gilt frame. It was of a very beautiful girl. She was something over
medium height, with a fine figure, golden hair, and deep-blue eyes.
Somehow, I recalled that I had seen that face before, and when I caught
Kennedy looking at it from time to time, I was certain of it.

Suddenly it flashed over me that the picture had been published in the
_Star_. It was Cecilie Safford. I remembered having read of Murchie's
escapades, one of which was his elopement with a pretty young
stenographer whom he had met at the horse show a couple of years before.

The talk ran along about horses still, but I noticed that Kennedy was
even more interested in Murchie's pictures, now, than in his
conversation. In the place of honor, over the mantel, hung a portrait,
in an artistic panel, of a slender girl with dark hair and hazel eyes,
with a soft, swanlike throat and neck, and a somewhat imperious manner
of carrying her head.

I followed Craig's glance across the room. There, in a frame upon the
wall in a corner, hung an enlargement of a group photograph. It was of a
middle-aged woman, a little boy, and a little girl. Then I remembered
the whole story.

At the time of his elopement, Murchie had a wi