Front matter (continued 4)

“A good porch-climber could do it,” Drew mused, with his eyes sweeping the curtains. “A very good one could. There are only three or four good ones out of prisons. They never go in for murder.”

“Wouldn’t money buy them?” asked Loris. “Mr. Morphy may have retained one—with some of the gold he stole from poor father.”

“Retained,” repeated Drew, turning with sudden intentness. “Retained, is hardly the word, Miss Loris. Hired, is more to the point. Hired assassins are not uncommon. We have the Becker case and the Hope murder. We have––”

Drew allowed his voice to trail to a whisper. “We have,” he declared, “our man! There’s the front door bell! It’s Delaney!”

“You have splendid ears, Mr. Drew.”

“I have to have, Miss Stockbridge. Now,” he added sharply, “you and Mr. Nichols go into the library—the writing room. I think the case is closing. There may be a little excitement if Delaney’s got that fellow. I, for one, am not going to stand much from him. Please go into the other room. That’s right. Stand there, Harry, in case we need a soldier!”

Drew advanced step by step toward the tapestries. He lifted his gun from his hip pocket, examined it with narrowed eyes, then replaced it loosely. He brushed the curtains aside and had the key out, as heavy steps shook the upper stairway and a knock sounded on the panels of the door.

“Who’s there?” asked Drew.

“Delaney, Chief!”

“All right! Just a moment.”

The detective glanced through the slit in the tapestries, saw that Nichols and Loris were across the room, then twisted the butterfly-latch, at the same time he thrust in the flat key and turned the lock.

The door swung open. Delaney’s huge bulk blocked the way. He half turned, cursed savagely, and clutched a pipe-stem neck with rude fingers. “Come along, you!” he boomed. “Get in there!”

The form of a man hurtled by Drew, fell and rose, then fell again beyond the tapestries in the center of the sitting room. Drew, like some lithe cat, was over him with a drawn gun. Delaney puffed across the rugs and tried to speak as the detective leaned and studied the chalk-pale face below shielding cuffed hands which were raised impotently.

“The trouble-man!” exclaimed Loris fearsomely.

A Central Office detective slouched through the door, deposited a kit of lineman’s tools on the floor near the tapestries, then retired discreetly.

“It’s him!” said Drew. “Please get back, Miss Stockbridge. We’re going to fix this fellow.”

“Oh, please don’t strike him.”

“Please—Miss Stockbridge. I’ll promise nothing in this connection. This is the man who foully murdered your father.”

Loris shrank back and against Nichols’ extended arm. Drew glanced at her with swift concern. He dropped his eyes to the man at his feet. “What happened?” he asked Delaney. “Has this fellow said anything? Done any talking?”

Delaney glared at the trouble-man. “Never a word has he said, Chief. He’s a clam. But––”

“What’s that? Go on, Delaney!”

“Why, Chief, I wouldn’t have brought him here if he hadn’t said to Morphy over the ’phone that ’it’ was fixed in her room. Now what does he mean by that ’it’?”

“We’ll find out!” declared Drew, dropping to the prisoner’s side.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“THE PRISONER SPEAKS”

The detective wasted no time searching the trouble-hunter’s pockets. His skilled fingers drew forth two envelopes, a note book and a small roll of money, the least of which was ten-dollar bills and the greatest, on the inside, spread out to three staring noughts and a one in front of these.

“One thousand and sixty dollars!” said Drew dryly, handing the roll to Delaney. “This fellow’s well heeled. Perhaps for a get-a-way. Take that. Now here––”

Drew tapped the envelopes with his fingers, spread them open and removed their sheets of closely-written paper.

“First letter,” he announced with raising brows, “is from Standard Electrical Co., of Chicago, recommending Albert Jones as a capable electrician. I don’t doubt it. He’s capable of most anything.”

Delaney took the letter and waited with his eyes fastened upon the silent figure who had not revealed his identity from the time of the arrest.

“Second letter,” continued Drew, “is addressed to Albert Jones, General Delivery, New York Post Office. It is from Ossining. It is signed Mortimer Morphy. How careless,” said the detective, rising in his excitement. “How very careless! It goes on to say that everything is all right. That the appeal is pending with the governor. That uncle Monty was expected to die and that aunt Lou was very low.”

Drew paused and glanced toward Loris and Nichols. “You know what that means?” he asked. “Uncle Monty was Mr. Montgomery Stockbridge and aunt Lou would figure out for you, Miss Stockbridge. Keep this, Delaney. We’re going to convict this man right here—whether he talks or not. This letter was written to him two months ago. It shows premeditation.”

“He looks ill,” said Loris. “His face is so white.”

“Dope!” snapped Drew, pressing down the prisoner’s right eyelid and glancing at the pupil. “A narcotic of some kind shows in the small iris. It’s like a pin head. Yen she, eh, Delaney?”

“Guess it is, Chief. Frisk his cap and belt. They carry it there, sometimes.”

Drew started at the prisoner’s hair and went over his entire body with careful fingers. A bulge, at the waist, resolved itself into a chamois money-belt which contained five cartridges, a small handful of electric fuses and a spool of fine wire.

Drew eyed this last with furrowed brow. He pocketed it finally and studied the cartridges.

“Twenty-two, cupronickle, center-fire,” he announced with a hard smile. “That forges another chain. We’re getting there. He was loaded for something, Delaney.”

“Sure and he was. Look at those handcuffs, Chief. I made them tight as I could.”

Drew handed up the cartridges and fuses and rattled the cuffs. The prisoner protested by turning partly over. His eyelids fluttered and opened full upon Loris. She shrank back between the curtains. Her hands went up to her face in voiceless fear. “Please keep away,” said Drew. “This man is always dangerous. I want to trim his claws before I take any chances with him. Delaney,” he added, “get my overcoat and bring me those plaster-casts. This case grows interesting. I wonder who the fellow is? ‘Albert Jones’ doesn’t convey much. He is a friend and tool of Morphy. Poor Morphy! I wonder what he’ll say when the governor gets this evidence? He’s buried now for twenty long years of penal service. He picked a good tool, though. A smart man!”

The prisoner did not brighten to any extent under the professional flattery. His eyes closed. The cuffed wrists dropped down upon his chest. He breathed slowly as Drew took the overcoat Delaney brought, and found the photos of the finger prints which Fosdick and the expert at headquarters had both declared were not on record.

“A little ink,” Drew said to the operative. “We’ll smear this fellow’s thumb and see if his print answers to the print I found in the booth at Grand Central. I’ll venture that it does.”

Nichols extended a fountain pen which the detective opened, sponged on the corner of a handkerchief, and returned with a chuckle of satisfaction.

“Ah,” he said, gripping the prisoner’s hand and smearing a thumb with a rolling motion across the back of the print. “Ah, Delaney, see here. The same whorls and loops. The same tiny V-shaped scar. One, two, three—center right. This is the man. We have him deeper in toward the place with the little, green door. He knows what I mean!”

The prisoner’s lips closed to a thin, hard line. A tiny spot of hectic fire burned in the center of each cheek as Drew completed the searching and rose.

“Footprints, now!” he said with a snappy order. “Compare those plaster casts you took at the junction-box back of this house. Are they the same? There’s a series of four screw holes in his rubber-heels, Delaney. Do they compare with the casts. Measure them!”

“Sure and they do,” said the big operative, rising and pointing to the small projections. “This lad, Chief, was the only one around that junction-box till after the snow froze and drifted over. That’s my idea, Chief. It caught him, didn’t it, Chief?”

“Every little helps to forge the chain,” Drew said. “He’s in bad now. His only chance is to tell us what he knows about Morphy? What was said over the telephone wire? What did Frick say?”

“It was this way, Chief,” Delaney said. “I’m waiting talking with the drug-clerk when there’s a ring on the slot-booth ’phone. It’s Jack Nefe at Gramercy Hill. He says to me that Frick had just ’phoned and said that Morphy had come out of the guard room, looked around, then, after chinning with a keeper at the front gate, he had started going over a telephone book for a number. Nefe said for me to hold the wire. Then I gets a number, Chief. It’s Gramercy Hill 11,678. Nefe said that was a booth in the new Broadway Subway at Forty-first Street. I piles into a cab and arrives there just as this fellow had finished boring a hole between the two booths—11,678 and 11,679. I waits behind a slot-machine. Some one rang up when he coupled the wires, listens, then asks Gramercy Hill central for this ’phone here in Miss Stockbridge’s room. You see the game, Chief?”

“Go on!” said Drew. “Be very clear!”

“This fellow was connecting Morphy at state prison with this house through the two slot booths. I sneaked up and waited for him to finish. He’s busy with a pair of pliers. I falls on him like a ton of bricks. Then after I get the cuffs on, I listens in. It’s Morphy roaring there, with that big bull voice of his. He’s mad ’cause he gets no answer. He shouts over and over, Chief—’Bert! Bert! Bert! Is it planted in her room? Her room. Is it there?’” Delaney paused and stared about the sitting room.

“What does he mean, Chief?” he asked huskily. “What is that ’it’?”

“Go on!” said Drew tersely.

“I got Morphy off the wire, Chief. I got Frick and then Frick got the warden. He’s a good fellow. He listened to me, then he calls some guards and they drag Morphy through the prison and down to the coolers. I guess they’re down in the ground, somewhere. Anyway, Chief, he’s gone for good—unless they send him to the chair for his part in the murder of Stockbridge.”

“He’ll go! What I want to know now, Delaney, is this fellow’s right name. Morphy said ’Bert,’ eh?”

“Sure he did, Chief. ‘Bert! Bert! Bert!’ That’s close to Albert. Albert Jones, like’s in the letter.”

“No! That would be a throw-off. He’s some other kind of a Bert. Let me see his cap.”

Delaney picked the prisoner’s cap from the rug and passed it over to Drew. The detective examined it, ripped the silk, and looked under the lining. He straightened and handed it to Harry Nichols.

“Can you make that name out?” he asked. “Your eyes are younger than mine. Perhaps Miss Stockbridge can read it. It’s Spanish, I think. ‘Gusta’ or ‘Gasta.’ The rest is obliterated with grease.”

“Antofagasta!” declared Loris suddenly. “It’s Antofagasta, Chile.”

“Fetch the lineman’s kit, the Central Office man brought,” said Drew to the operative. “Put it right here by this fellow’s side. I—we are getting close to the truth in this case.”

Delaney hurried back with the satchel. It was the same one that Drew had seen in the library on the evening Stockbridge was murdered. It had excited no suspicion then.

“A magneto,” said the detective. “First comes a ringing magneto which has seen much service. Put that over there, Delaney. Spread a paper or something. Ah,” Drew added, “here’s a set of small dry batteries arranged in series. Three or four of them. I don’t know just what they’re for, but Bert does.”

The prisoner’s pale eyes blinked and were closed again as the lids compressed in wrinkled determination. He moved slightly when Drew pressed a knee against his chest. He coughed with dry catching deep down in his throat. The detective felt of his pulse. It was faint but steady—like a tired sleeper’s.

“He’s coming out of it,” Drew said. “He’ll talk after awhile. Let’s see, what is this?”

Delaney leaned over the satchel. “Another link,” said Drew, drawing out a telephone receiver without wires attached to it. “And here,” he added, “is the testing set with the sharp clamps. That’s for listening in or talking with other people’s connections. I don’t doubt that this fellow knows his business. Here’s a micro-volt meter that registers fractions of volts. Here’s an ammeter of the pocket size. I’ve seen this kind on automobiles for testing dry-cells. Now, what is this?”

“Looks like a full set of jimmies!” blurted Delaney. “That’s a sectional jimmy!”

“He’s got everything,” said the detective, turning and glancing at Loris. “Here, Miss Stockbridge,” he said, holding up an empty cartridge shell. “Here is the most important link in the chain against him. It’s a twenty-two shell which has been fired. See—wait—what’s this, Delaney? The cap on the end hasn’t been struck. The cartridge was discharged—the cap is intact. How could that be?”

Loris and Harry Nichols leaned over the detective. He turned the tiny shell around in his fingers. He sniffed it. He held it out so they could see the end. “Discharged,” he exclaimed, “without touching the detonating cap on the end! That’s odd! Very suggestive!”

“Let me see it,” said Nichols. “I’ll tell. We have exams on these things. This seems to have been fired,” he continued with thought. “It’s been fired without concussion. I’d say it was heat that did it. A match touched to the base here would fire the cap, which would, in turn, set off the powder. There’s a different color to the brass at the cap end. It looks to me like a shell which has been clamped down by three—no, four screws. There’s marks on the rim. See them, Loris—Miss Stockbridge? Right there. Right at my nail.”

“That’s about right, Harry!” declared Drew, reaching for the cartridge. “It was clamped down with small screws. It was ignited or set off by heat. It forms part of a home-made pistol which conforms, to a hair, with Fosdick’s statement that the bullet never went through a barrel that was rifled.”

“That’s your own statement!” blurted Delaney. “Fosdick never had brains enough to figure a thing out like that. All he knows is pinch everybody two or three times. I’ve seen him do it.”

Drew eyed the prisoner. “So you see,” he said softly, cuttingly, “crime does not pay. The net has closed over your head. You erred a score of times. You couldn’t afford to make one little mistake. I could—I did! I’ve made a hundred in this case already! It’s the hound and the hare. The hound loses the scent and brays on blunderingly till he picks it up again. You lost me time and again. You fooled me in that lineman’s guise when you came into the library. Your make-up was perfect. You said just the right things.”

The prisoner’s lips curled in a thin cruel line. He rattled the cuffs defiantly. His shoulders lifted then fell back upon the rug.

“Bert!” snapped Drew. “Bert!” he repeated with awakening thought. “Delaney,” he said, turning and glancing up at the operative’s broad, flushed face. “I got this fellow located. What was the name of the man we tried to find in the Morphy failure? The one we had a bench-warrant for? He was indicted. The indictment was sealed. You know! It’s a name you didn’t like. The fellow who escaped to Rio or South America? Who afterwards went to Antofagasta. Ah, Cuthbert!”

“That’s it, Chief! Cutbert! Cutbert Morphy—the old devil’s brother. This is him!”

Drew rubbed his hands vigorously. “It is!” he exclaimed, with his eyes swinging over the prisoner’s drawn features. “Cuthbert Morphy—a brother’s tool and confederate. We’re getting on!”

The detective rose and faced Loris and Nichols. “Captain,” he said, “a firing squad at sunrise would be the Army’s answer to this man’s deviltry. Consider what he has done. He’s worked back to New York after a year as a fugitive. He connected in some manner with Morphy at Sing Sing. Perhaps he went there as a visitor under the pretext of business connected with Morphy’s affairs. This scheme was hatched there in the prison. It was financed by Morphy. It succeeded in so far as Mr. Stockbridge was concerned. First the telephone call to the cemetery superintendent. Then followed his visit to this house for the purpose of fixing some fiendish device. Or––”

“He might have fixed the windows, Chief,” suggested Delaney. “He might have opened a catch and climbed in afterwards.”

“He wasn’t near the windows,” said Drew. “He had something else in the back of his crafty, twisted brain. He came and went out, with Mr. Stockbridge and I watching him. He called up, then, and threatened the death. He probably looped the library ’phone up with Sing Sing at or about midnight. We have a record of both calls.”

“Why,” asked Loris, as Drew paused in thought. “Why did he have Morphy connected with father? I can’t see, Mr. Drew, that part of it. The rest, you have told is, is very clear.”

“Nor I yet,” admitted the detective. “But that is a detail. It is probably the criminal’s ego, which is in every one of them, to notify their prey that the hour has come. Morphy was an artist in crime. He was a master mind in finance and chicanery. What better revenge could he think of than to notify Mr. Stockbridge that death was about to strike? It savors of Machiavelli and Borgia. Whom the gods destroy they first make mad. He tried it on you.”

“Gods!” blurted Delaney with ire. “Devils, you mean, Chief!”

“Yes, or worse!” said Drew, glancing sternly at the prisoner. “This fellow,” he added, “is the agent for the destroyer. Now how was it done?”

Delaney glanced about the walls of the room in apprehension. “I’ll take another look around,” he suggested heavily. “Maybe with them new ideas we can locate something that might be planted for the killing.”

Drew glanced sharply at the prisoner’s face. A faint sneer was on the thin lips. The wrists twisted and turned in the handcuffs. The steel chain rattled metallically. Loris backed step after step toward the shielding curtain and Harry Nichols. “Oh!” she said suddenly, as she dropped her head against his breast. “Oh, Harry! there can’t be anything like that.”

“Certainly not!” Drew hastened to ejaculate. “That’s nonsense. If there was anything planted in either of these three rooms, there’s no one to get in and operate it. I’ve searched! Mr. Delaney has searched. Do you want us to search again?” Drew’s lips were drawn with doubt as he stared anxiously from Loris to Nichols. “I’ll do it, captain, if you say so. I think we’ve done enough work, however. The thing is to get this fellow to talk. I don’t want to give him over to Fosdick and the third degree till we see if he is going to treat us right. He can turn state’s evidence on Morphy, who blundered. Then he’ll get off lightly. Morphy is the master mind.”

“He only smiles,” said Nichols, tapping his breast suggestively. “I’ve a gun here and I’ve a mind to use it. Do you think I want Miss Stockbridge murdered like her father was murdered? I’ll shoot that cur! He’s a whispering snake! A Hun!”

“Don’t!” sobbed Loris, as Nichols thrust his hand in his coat and drew out a flat automatic of .44 caliber. “Don’t, Harry! Perhaps this man is innocent.”

“Innocent!” declared Nichols. “Why, Loris—why, Miss Stockbridge, you don’t think that, after all the things Mr. Drew has discovered. I’ll wager my commission he’s guilty as Hell, and I mean it, Loris.”

“He’s that!” Delaney declared. “He and his brother the devil are one in sin. They’re lost spirits.”

“Now everybody,” said Drew, gathering in the group with his eyes, which were strangely bright. “Everybody keep very quiet for a minute. Let me think.”

“Sure and I will, Chief. I’m thinking I want to think, myself.”

Drew frowned at Delaney. He dropped his eyes and studied the prisoner’s hands. They were strangely white and remarkably small for a man who had labored at telephone-repairing. The detective’s glance rested on the ink-stained thumb. His mind swung with this thought to the footprints. Following the train he arrived at the first conclusion that an expert in telephony could devise most any kind of a practical method for opening a window or a ventilator. He dismissed this theory with a glance about the room. The ventilator was well-hidden and inaccessible to any one without a step-ladder. Considerable time devoted in climbing upon a chair and a case of jade ornaments might reach it, but the trouble-man had not been alone in the room when he inspected the telephone.

Drew went over the salient details of the Stockbridge tragedy. One fact stood out. The windows had been well locked. The sashes were covered with snow. A climber, even on the face of the house, would have difficulty in springing a catch by a secret method, raising the window and entering without leaving a track of some kind. He dismissed this supposition as untenable. He turned to Delaney, fully puzzled.

“Was there a climber’s set in that bag?” he asked sharply.

“I didn’t see any, Chief. I don’t think this fellow’s a climber. He ain’t built like one. His shoes are smooth on the bottom and his hands are all polished up around the nails. Looks to me, Chief, as if he might be able to pick most any kind of a lock.”

“The locks are out of the question!” snapped Drew. “I examined them. They’re not in line. Has anybody here any suggestions?”

Drew stared at the prisoner’s drawn, white face as he asked this question. “He wasn’t long in this part of the house,” said the captain. “The maid watched him. She thought perhaps he might take something.”

“Fosdick is to blame!” said Drew almost losing his temper. “He should have given strict orders at the door not to let anybody in till the case was settled. It’s all mixed up now. This man had ample opportunity to cover himself. A clever sneak could do most anything under your eyes without you seeing him operate. I suppose the only thing to do is to turn him over to Headquarters. He’ll get his!”

Loris frowned slightly at Drew’s manner. The detective did not act like his former self. She watched him pace the floor between the prisoner and the tapestries. He came back with a square set to his jaw and a hard glint in his olive eyes which gleamed like steel behind velvet.

“Stand him up!”

Delaney stared at his chief. He opened his mouth, then closed it firmly. “All right,” he said, reaching down. “I’ll stand him up if you let me give him an upper-cut. I don’t like these silent crooks. They’re snaky, Chief.”

“No unnecessary violence, gentlemen,” suggested Nichols as Loris laid her hand on his arm. “I’d like to have him alone for a few minutes—but outside. Go easy. Perhaps he’ll talk.”

“It may be your life or this man’s!” gritted Drew, stepping up to the prisoner after a sharp glance at Loris. “I pity him when Fosdick gets hold of him. He’ll talk then!”

The prisoner swayed with Delaney’s fingers gripping his collar in a vice-strong clutch. His white-pale face, his narrow-set eyes, his furtive glance to left and right like a cornered rat, brought Drew to mind of a man who was slowly breaking down. He lowered his brows and clutched the prisoner’s elbow with strong fingers that pressed deep through the coat sleeve.

“Out with it!” he demanded harshly. “It’s your last chance to save your miserable skin. You’re not going to get any mercy from the Commissioner. You know what he’ll do to you!”

The prisoner twisted loose from Drew’s clutch. His eyes wavered as he stared at Loris for a long second, then dropped to the floor. They closed in painful thought. Suddenly he blanched with passion.

“I’ve no use for you coppers!” he screamed shrillingly. “I hate the sight of you and your kind. Let me go! Let me go!”

“Fine chance,” whispered Delaney, tightening his grip on the prisoner’s collar. “You got a fine chance, you murderin’, thievin’, second-story man! I’d paste you if the lady wasn’t here! Sure I would, right between the eyes!”

“Easy,” said Drew. “Leave him to me. He’s thinking the thing over. I don’t mind telling him that the magpie beat him. That and the carelessness of Morphy in calling up when he must have known that Frick was in the front office of the prison. It’s always the way, Bert. He travels the fastest, up or down, who travels alone. It’s the lone star that gives us the trouble. There’s nobody to peach on him!”

The prisoner bit his upper lip. A slight sign of blood showed. He tasted this with the tip of his tongue. His eyes narrowed in calculation. He turned and faced Drew with slit-lidded intentness.

“I haven’t done a thing,” he whispered. “You ain’t got a thing on me.”

“Oh, no!” blurted Drew with heat. “I ain’t got a thing. I’ve been asleep since the time you murdered this girl’s father. I’ve had ten men on your trail since the beginning. I don’t hold the first murder so much against you as I do the projected one—which missed fire by a scant margin. You slayed a man with your devilish ingenuity, but you’re not going to put it over on his daughter. I’ve seen to that! I notice nobody has called up and said this was the Master talking. There’s a good reason.”

The prisoner fluttered his pale lashes and glanced at the telephone. He closed his eyes with a smile shadowing his lips.

“There’s a good reason,” repeated Drew. “You are not in some booth at Forty-first Street to make the connection. Morphy is in the strongest cooler. He’s booked for twenty years. After that he’ll get more. He can’t help you!”

“Oh, you coppers,” said the trouble-man. “Just give me five minutes and I’d show you. I don’t hold anything against the girl. I never saw her before.”

“You lie!”

“Why don’t you take these cuffs off-a-me? I can’t hit back.”

“I’d sooner take the chance outside,” said Drew, glancing at Loris. “I’d do it there!”

Delaney tightened his grip and half held the trouble-hunter in the air. He raised on his toes with the strain.

“Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Loris. “I’ll have to ask you to stop this. I can’t let it occur in my house!”

“Miss Stockbridge,” said Drew with soft rebuke. “Miss Stockbridge, I’ve been in the detective business for twenty years. I never saw in that time a more dangerous man. He is the super-type who usually falls through the errors of other men. This fellow has brains. He’s an expert in telephony and in wireless. There are a number of patents in the patent office under his name.”

“Then he may be innocent, Mr. Drew.”

“He’s as guilty as the Kaiser!” exclaimed Delaney, twisting the prisoner around. “Look at him. He’s been trying to murder the finest little lady in the country. She never harmed anybody. She’s devoting most of her time to Red Cross work and the—Army,” added the big operative with a touch of brogue as he glanced at Nichols.

“But he has not said that he murdered father,” said Loris.

“Sure an’ he won’t say it. I know the breed of this snake. He wants nothing used against him in the trial. He’ll have the evidence of us four to show that he didn’t say anything. I never saw an innocent man who wouldn’t talk!”

“We’re getting nowhere,” objected Drew, taking command of the situation. “Take him out, Delaney, and turn him over to the Central Office bunch. They’ll take him down to Fosdick!”

The prisoner lifted his manacled hands. He dropped them after a slow glance at Drew’s square jaw.

“Come on!” said Delaney with a jerk backward.

“Wait!”

Drew and Nichols leaned forward. “Well?” asked the detective, as the prisoner bowed his head. “Well? Well?”

“Is that true about my brother—Morphy?”

“It is!” Drew said with ringing conviction. “It’s true! He’s out of this world. He’s buried alive and the key has been thrown away.”

“The jig is up, then,” said the trouble-man, turning toward the telephone. “Let me telephone,” he said in a whisper. “I want to use it,” he repeated faintly. “I’ll show you how that—that Stockbridge died.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“THE VOICE ON THE WIRE”

The prisoner lifted his manacled hands and held them toward Drew. “Let me loose,” he said, “and I’ll explain everything that I’ve done! I want it off my mind. I won’t sleep until you people are satisfied. I know you—you copper! I know Fosdick—the third degree artist.”

Drew frowned as he glanced at the cuffs. He scratched his dark hair and combed his fingers back toward his ears. He turned and glanced at Loris and Nichols in the opening between the two splendid rooms.

“I don’t like to take a chance with this fellow,” he admitted. “Do you want me to, Miss Stockbridge? It’s your life he was after, and he may be shamming now. You never can trust an opium addict. They have no soul.”

“I’ve as much as a copper’s!”

“Shut up, you!” boomed Delaney, threateningly. “Shut up! There’s a lady in this room!”

The prisoner clicked his cuffs together. He stared at the cheval glass and the telephone. “A lady?” he repeated through the corner of his lips. “A limb of the Stockbridge tree,” he said bitterly. “I hold nothing against her. I told you that before. But we promised the old man we’ll take care of her after we killed him, and she came near going—let me tell you that. I could have killed her with twenty words.”

“He’s rambling,” said Delaney, reaching for the prisoner. “The dope has gone to his head. I don’t believe there’s any––”

“Easy, Delaney,” warned Drew thoroughly on the alert. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating this fellow. He acts like a man who has repented—who wants to right some of the wrong he has done. I don’t think we are taking chances in letting this fellow loose. He is unarmed. I tended to that. If he wants to ’phone—let’s let him.”

“Your case, Chief!”

Drew reached in his pocket and brought around a police regulation revolver. “I’ll have this right here!” he snapped as he slowly raised it. “You, Delaney, unlock one cuff and pass it to me. I’ll wrap the chain around my left wrist. If this fellow tries anything I’ll tend to his case—forever. These .44’s are made for stopping purposes, eh, Mr. Nichols?”

“They certainly are, Mr. Drew. I think we can handle that little man without trouble. What does he want to telephone for?”

“What for, Bert?” asked Drew, swinging and confronting the prisoner. “Do you want to say good-by to somebody?”

“Good-by is right,” whispered the trouble-man, extending his hands toward Delaney, who fished out a small key. “Yes, it’s good-by to somebody. Unlock them!”

“Hold on!” exclaimed Drew. “I don’t like that tone. You’ll have to act better than that, Bert. What do you want to get loose for? What number do you want? I’ll call up.”

“No, I got to do it. I want one hand free—that’s all.”

Loris stepped to Drew’s side. “Can there be anything about the room,” she asked, “that he wants to use? Perhaps he’ll pick something up and use it too quickly for you to stop him.”

“I don’t think so,” said Drew grimly. “This gun, Miss Stockbridge, happens to have a hair trigger. We’ll chance it—with your permission.”

“I’m not afraid for myself—but don’t you think the poor fellow should be prevented from harming himself. He acts just like a man who wanted to do something terrible. He seems to have given up hope.”

“A woman’s intuition,” mused Drew. “Perhaps a close one,” he said aloud. “You get back into the other room, Miss Stockbridge. Let Mr. Nichols stand in front of you for protection. I’m going to grant this fellow’s request. Delaney, unlock the left cuff!”

The key rattled in the tiny key-hole as Drew poised his revolver and drew a sight between the prisoner’s fluttering eyelids. “Stand right there,” whispered the detective tersely. “Right there,” he added, reaching with his left hand and taking the cuff and chain from the operative. “Now, Bert, you’re half free. What do you want with the telephone?”

The prisoner pinched his wrist and worked his hand like a hinge. A white mark, which slowly changed to red, showed where Delaney had clamped the handcuff down to its last notch. The trouble-man eyed this mark. His lips hardened. He strained on the chain as he lifted his fingers to his brow with a tired gesture.

“Hurry!” said Drew. “Hurry, Bert, or we’ll cuff you up again. Do you want to telephone?”

“Y—e—s!” The voice was tremulous and dry. “Yes! I’ll use it. I’ll show you how that pirate—Stockbridge—was killed. The yellow squealer!”

Loris raised her chin proudly. She leaned against Nichols in the doorway. “I won’t stand for that!” declared the soldier. “You are being insulted in your own house!”

“Wait, Harry! Something is going to happen! I know it is!”

“You’re right, lady,” whispered the prisoner. “It’s going to happen to—well, I don’t care. I’m done. The jig is up!”

Cuthbert Morphy shrugged his shoulders and turned toward Drew. He stared at the menacing revolver with a cryptic smile. “Get your man downstairs,” he said, in hollow tones. “Get him to go in the library and call up this number. Tell Central to connect the two ’phones in this house. Shout into the library transmitter when the connection is made.”

Drew frowned. “What’s all that for?” he asked.

“Do as I say.”

“I don’t know about that. I give orders here. What do you want that done for? I thought you wanted a number on the ’phone. I thought you would get somebody on the wire who would explain everything.”

“Everything will be explained, Inspector. Everything! I told you the jig was up with me. I mean it, too. There’s nothing left but the truth.”

Drew wound the handcuff chain tighter about his left wrist. He braced his feet and turned to Delaney. “Go downstairs,” he said, “and call up this number. Do what this fellow says. The number is Gramercy Hill 9764.”

Loris and Nichols lifted their brows as they turned toward each other. “I’m afraid,” said the girl. “Something is not right, Harry.”

“It’s the only way we’ll ever find out what this man means. If they take him away without letting him talk over the ’phone we’ll never know. Leave things to Mr. Drew. He’s armed! I’m armed! There’s no danger!”

“Get downstairs to the library!” Drew ordered. “Do what this man wants. Shout into the transmitter. Go now!”

Delaney lunged through the tapestries and unlocked the door to the hall. He paused there in thought. He turned and glanced back.

“Hurry!” exclaimed Drew. “Hurry now!”

The big operative cursed audibly as he descended the two flights of carpeted steps. He nodded to the Central Office man at the library door. He passed inside, rounded the table and stood by the ’phone. He picked up the receiver. His eyes wandered along the floor as he waited. A dark spot showed on the hardwood. It was where the millionaire’s blood had gushed forth from the bullet hole in the base of his brain.

“Gramercy Hill 9-7-6-4!” said Delaney with a bull’s voice.

“B-r-r-r-r-! B-r-r-r-r-! B-r-r-r-r-r!” sounded from the ringing-box of the silver plated telephone in the sitting-room of Loris Stockbridge’s suite.

The prisoner pulled at the chain as he leaned toward the telephone. “It’s ringing,” he said in a thin whisper. “Let me—let me listen in.”

Drew studied the entire situation before he granted permission. Loris and Nichols were framed between the silken portières. The captain held his army regulation revolver at his hip. Loris leaned forward with her dark eyes smoldering and intent. The blood had left her cheeks. They were white and tersely set. She seemed older to Drew. He smiled reassuringly, dropped his gun to his hip, pressed it against the prisoner and shoved him toward the ’phone as a “B-r-r-r-r-” sounded above the lifting roar of Delaney’s voice in the depths of the great mansion.

The room became charged and surcharged with electricity. A crackling sounded as Drew’s feet glided inch by inch over the silk rug. The storm outside whined and synchronized with the rise and fall of the great voice shouting “Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello, you!”

The trouble-man turned. His hand reached upward and lifted the hard-rubber receiver from the hook. His lids fluttered toward Loris. His eyes softened with memories. “I’m glad I didn’t do it!” he hissed across the room. “Good-by, lady—good-by!”

“Be careful!” snapped Drew, pressing the revolver firmly against the prisoner’s right side. “Be careful! This is a hair trigger!”

The trouble-man smiled a twisted, wan smile as he turned his head toward the transmitter and said huskily:

“Hello! Hello! You big copper! Shout on! See how loud you can curse me! That’s it. That—is—it!”

Drew heard Delaney’s voice rise in indignation. The taunt had spurned him to greater effort. The metallic diaphragm of the receiver roared and clicked. It echoed the voice. It stopped. It vibrated again. It reached a reed-like tune of high-pitched anger. The prisoner closed his eyes and stiffened. He pressed the receiver directly over his ear. He drew back on the chain and to one side. Drew’s face darkened with suspicion. It was too late. The detective had time to spring away as a cone of lurid light and flame shot out from the telephone diaphragm and splashed across the prisoner’s set face. A sharp detonation racked the perfumed air of the room. Smoke wreathed about the astonished Inspector’s head, and floated upward toward the ventilator.

Cuthbert Morphy’s muscles relaxed. He spun, sank to his knees, then pitched forward across the rug with a bullet in his brain. Drew untwisted the chain with a wrist flip, sprang forward toward the cheval-glass, and stamped his foot down upon the smoking telephone receiver as if it were the head of a rattlesnake.

He turned with clear light striking out from his eyes. He nodded toward the leaning form of the girl and the erect one of the captain. He divined in seconds how the murder of Montgomery Stockbridge had been accomplished. The full series of events and clues flashed through his brain. It was like an orderly array seen at a picture show.

Cuthbert Morphy, guised as a trouble-hunter in the employ of the telephone company, had devised a single-shot pistol out of a telephone receiver and had caused it to be actuated by the human voice so that it would always strike in the most vulnerable part of man’s anatomy—the ear.

With this lethal instrument he had slain the millionaire, and, when trapped and in danger of execution, he had employed the same method to bring about his own death. It was a fitting end to a life of crime and drug-brought imageries.

Delaney, with drawn gun and wild of eyes, burst through the tapestries and brought up with a dizzy lurch before the body of Cuthbert Morphy. He stammered and glared downward. He swung his heavy chin and stared at Loris and Nichols in the gloom of the further curtains. He clapped Drew on the shoulder with a heavy hand.

“Had to shoot him, eh, Chief? What’d he try? What—you got your foot on?”

“An electric pistol,” said Drew, with a grim smile distending his olive-hued lips. “An infernal machine, Delaney. I hope it isn’t a repeater. Cut that wire! Both wires! Get your knife out and cut through them, quick! I won’t take any chances.”

The big operative pocketed his revolver with a back swing of his right hand, brought it forward empty and ran it down his trouser pocket. He brought out a buck-horn jack-knife, pried it open, stooped and slashed through the two silk cords holding the receiver to the bottom of the transmitter which had fallen from the bracket.

Loris swayed with supple limbs. She raised her hands and pressed her unjeweled fingers against her face. She sobbed once, then turned and threw herself upon Nichols’ drab shoulder. “Harry,” she cried. “Oh, Harry—what happened? I didn’t see what happened!”

The captain glided an arm about her waist and half-carried, half-led her to a couch in the reading-room. “Rest here a minute,” he said, leaning down. “Be cool and as brave as you can. The trouble-man won’t trouble you any longer. He took his own medicine!”

Nichols returned to the sitting room in time to hear Drew exclaim, after Delaney had reached down and lifted the receiver, “The case is closed! This closes it with a bang! Give me that electric pistol, Delaney!”

The operative handed it over. “Get a big rug,” ordered Drew with sudden thought. “Cover that fellow over till we call the Central Office men and the coroner. I want to examine this receiver.”

“Right here on this little table would be a good place,” suggested Nichols, lifting off a handful of ivory ornaments and depositing them on top of a glass case. “I’ll spread a paper here. I’d like to see what’s inside that thing myself.”

“Do you know anything about electricity or telephony?” asked Drew, as he turned the hard-rubber receiver in his hand and stared at the listening end.

“Very little, Inspector. But fire-arms are in my line and that seems to be one.”

The detective nodded. “It’s one, all right,” he said, holding it out with a steady hand. “Looks harmless, don’t it? Two binding-posts on one end. A rubber cap on the other. Notice that diaphragm.”

Nichols took the receiver and squinted at the rubber cap. “By George!” he said. “This is odd. There’s a tiny hole drilled or punched in the center. It’s about the same size as the bore of a twenty-two caliber revolver.”

“Look at your hands!” said Drew. “What the devil,” he added with dawning conviction. “Say, Delaney, do you remember that spot of black under my left ear. The one you noticed after we left yesterday morning? The––”

“Sure, Chief. That’s where you got the smut—from that receiver!”

“I got it when I picked up the telephone in the library downstairs and tried to get Central. Do you remember how long she took? This is the same receiver in all probability. The trouble-hunter removed it from the library connections, loaded it, and brought it up here. It looks like any ordinary receiver. The telephone company have some with binding posts and some without. This is an earlier model.”

“The spot of black was from the first discharge when Stockbridge was killed!” exclaimed Delaney.

Drew ran his fingers around the inner rim of the rubber cap. He held them up. “See!” he exclaimed. “No wonder my neck was marked. That settles that mystery, Delaney. If we had any brains at all we would have connected the soot and the telephone. If we had done that we’d have solved the case early this morning, or yesterday morning. It’s after one, now!”

“This hole,” said Nichols, “was the only thing in the whole dastardly scheme that could have been seen. It’s the size of the end of a lead pencil. Funny you didn’t notice it?”

“I looked everywhere but there,” admitted Drew. “The receiver hangs with the diaphragm end down. That’s the reason I didn’t see it. Well—there’s always a reason,” he added. “Now, Delaney, fetch me that trouble-hunter’s satchel. We’ll see what this pistol is made of and how it is made. I venture to say that it is simple.”

Delaney awoke from his stupor and lifted a rug which he tossed over the body of Cuthbert Morphy. He wiped his hands with a finite motion. He wheeled and slouched lankily across the polished floor. He returned with the lineman’s kit.

“Pliers,” said Drew, as the big operative removed the straps and reached his hand inside. “I saw a pair there when we had it open before,” the detective added, unscrewing the rubber cap of the receiver and lifting the thin metal diaphragm from the face of two tiny magnets which were wound with fine silk wire.

“Regulation magnets,” whispered Nichols, leaning over the detective’s shoulder. “They’re regulation except there’s a hole drilled down between them. There must be a barrel all the way through the receiver.”

“We’ll see. Got those pliers, Delaney?”

The operative passed up a pair. “Ah,” chuckled the detective, unscrewing the binding-posts and lifting off a hard rubber cap. “Ah, see here!”

Delaney rose and peered over the captain’s shoulder straps. The two men watched Drew’s nimble fingers trace out the mechanism of the electric pistol.

“It’s simple!” declared the detective. “It’s very simple and ingenious in construction. It’s a crowning wonder to me that some one hasn’t used this sort of device to carry out a wholesale slaughtering. Suppose they never thought of it.”

Drew glanced at the silent mound under the Persian rug. “The wrong road,” he whispered tersely. “He took the wrong road. He was a mechanical and electrical genius. He was a patent expert.”

Delaney worked his brows up and down. “Shall I call Miss Stockbridge?” he asked.

“I’ll do it,” Nichols said, turning and hurrying through the portières. He returned with Loris leaning upon his arm. Her eyes were glazed and tear-laden. She held a tiny, limp lace handkerchief between her trembling fingers.

“There’s no danger,” said Drew. “Come here, Miss Stockbridge,” he added. “I want to show you what was all ready for you.”

The detective raised the hard-rubber receiver. “Here we have the diaphragm,” he said, pointing. “It’s a round plate of soft iron. It’s secured to the rubber by an insulated ring. It is the part you press up to your ear when you listen at a telephone. There’s a small hole punched in this one. The same sized hole extends down through the center core, or magnet. This hole isn’t rifled. It couldn’t well be rifled save with special machinery. That’s why the bullet found in Mr. Stockbridge’s brain was without longitudinal scorings. It was fired from a smooth-bored pistol.”

“That’s what you thought!” blurted Delaney with loyalty.

“I was at sea,” said Drew. “Now,” he continued, “we have a live cartridge at the opposite end of this core from the diaphragm. See it?” Loris leaned over the little table.

“Right here!” The detective pointed. “That is a twenty-two cartridge with a cupronickle bullet. See the cap? See how it is held from coming back by those tiny screws about the rim?”

Loris nodded and gathered up her straying hair.

“Now,” continued Drew. “Now, this cartridge was exploded by the action of the human voice. Here’s a tiny spiral of very slender platinum wire. It must be number forty, at least. That’s very fine! This spiral is in series with the winding about the magnets. The same current pulsated by the human voice which actuates the receiver diaphragm, also passed through this spiral. Now,” Drew paused. “Now,” he added with rising voice, “here is a tiny charred piece of match-head, I guess. It was set in the coil. It flared when the wire became hot. The heat was sufficient to ignite the cap. See it!”

“I see it!” exclaimed Nichols.

“The action is simple,” continued Drew. “A pulsation of the current which was formed by the action of the vibrating, transmitter diaphragm, also pulsated the fine wire before it went to the receiver magnets. The louder the voice into the transmitter the more current—measured in fractions of amperes—passed through the spiral. It became sufficiently hot to flare the piece of match-head or whatever Cuthbert placed there. This flare was communicated to the percussion cap, or fulminate of mercury, at the base of the cartridge. This exploded the powder charge, which in turn projected the cupronickle bullet forward through the tube or the bore of the receiver and out through the thin, metal diaphragm, and––”

“What’s that?” asked the operative.

“Out through the hole in the diaphragm,” continued Drew, “and right into your ear or my ear, Delaney!”

“Not into mine!” exclaimed the operative. “I’ll never telephone as long as I live, Chief!”

“We’ll all be careful,” said Nichols, turning toward Loris.

Drew gathered together the different parts of the telephone receiver. “Evidence against Morphy,” he said dryly, as he dropped them into the side pocket of his coat. “They are our Exhibit A if he ever finishes that twenty years in the cooler.”

Loris reached out her hand. “You saved my life,” she said. “You saved it, Mr. Drew.”

“I blundered and blundered and blundered on this case,” admitted the detective frankly. “Now I’m going to request you to wait a few minutes before I call the coroner. Delaney has some questions. I feel sure he wants to ask me one or two.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“THE END”

Triggy Drew’s eyes shone with triumphant fire as he turned and faced the group gathered in the sitting room.

He adjusted his coat lapels, clicked his heels and smiled politely. His hand strayed up to his short-cropped mustache which was still neat and well-trimmed despite the labors of the day.

“Although the case is practically closed,” he said with concern, “there are features which are not entirely cleared up—even in my mind. Perhaps we have a little time,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go into the other room—away from these memories—and have a cup of tea, if Miss Stockbridge will be so kind as to order some.”

Loris glanced at Nichols. She nodded as she turned toward Drew. He moved over to the rug which covered Cuthbert Morphy’s body. He stooped and adjusted this. He rose and dimmed the lights by snapping off two of the switches and turning a bulb in its socket. He hesitated as he glanced at the telephone wires which Delaney had cut.

“Central will wonder what has happened,” he said half aloud. “The connections leading to this house have given them a lot of trouble in the last few hours. I suppose they haven’t another trouble-man like this one, though?” Drew pointed toward the shadowed rug which gleamed with silk and rare woven designs.

Loris raised her hand and grasped the portières. She shuddered slightly. She allowed her eyes to wander over the room as if for a last fleeting glance. They locked with the detective’s own. She smiled with a plaintive droop to her mouth.

“I’ll order the tea,” she said invitingly. “Will you come in?”

Drew bowed and followed her through the portières. Delaney already stood by the door which led to the maid’s room. Harry Nichols had picked up a small book and was impatiently examining its pages. The soldier turned and eyed the detective.

“We’ll sit down?” he asked, laying the book on a cushion. “I’m a bit curious to know how you worked out a number of things. I think that Miss Stockbridge is, too.”

“I’d like to be a detective!” exclaimed Loris, gliding across the room and tapping with her knuckles on the door. “Wouldn’t you, Mr. Delaney?” she added naïvely.

Delaney chuckled. “I would, Miss,” he said with candor. “I’m not a regular. I’m only a volunteer. Mr. Drew has me along to do the heavy work. He says what I can’t lift I can drag.”

Loris smiled as the maid answered by opening the door to a crack. “Tea for four,” she said. “Pekoe and tea biscuits—unless––”

She turned and widened her eyes prettily. “Would you have anything else?” she asked Drew.

“Strong tea!” exclaimed the detective. “I’ll take ‘hops,’ as we call it. Make it very strong and then we’ll settle some of these questions. My head is none too clear. I’ve been under a strain. I’m frank to admit that!”

The tea arrived within ten minutes. Drew had prevented Delaney from ’phoning for the coroner or to Fosdick. “Some matters to clear up,” he whispered suggestively. “We’ll leave this place with the case entirely completed.”

Nichols arranged two chairs about a tiny teak-wood table. He had set this table within the bay of an alcove. The space was small, with Delaney’s big feet very much in the way.

Drew poised his cup and glanced from Loris to Nichols. Their heads were very close together. The blue-black luster of the girl’s hair was a perfect contrast to the officer’s blond pompadour which was slightly disarranged. The light from above haloed with the soft fire of frosted glass and cut prisms.

The detective upended the cup, drank deeply, then passed it over to Delaney. “Another, please,” he said, watching the operative struggling with a saucer which was far too fragile for his thick fingers. “One more cup,” he added. “No sugar.”

Loris leaned from the cushion at the small of her back and glanced toward the portières with thought-laden eyes. “Poor misguided fellow,” she said softly. “I feel uneasy, Mr. Drew. Somehow or other I feel that we were partly responsible for his death. I wish it hadn’t happened.”

“I’ll agree with you. We must forget more than we remember in this world. Our time is short. The coroner and the Central Office squad will have to be notified. I don’t doubt that Fosdick will be surprised at the turn in the case. He has some of your servants locked up, you know!”

Loris pressed closer to Nichols. “I wish that body wasn’t in there,” she whispered. “Suppose he had other confederates who would break in?”

“He worked alone,” assured Drew, finishing the second cup and setting it down. “I found no evidence of another crook. He worked single-handed and single-minded. He made one mistake. Morphy was a bungler. A bungler is a man who lets his artistic temperament get the better of him. Had he allowed Cuthbert to slay both the—Mr. Stockbridge and yourself over the ’phone, he would never have solved the case. It was the telephoning from Sing Sing that opened up the entire matter.”

“The inevitable slip!” exclaimed Nichols.

“Yes,” said Drew. “They all make it. I could tell you of a thousand instances. But back of the inevitable slip, as you call it, is something deeper. It has not often been mentioned in dealing with criminals.”

“What is it?” asked Loris.

“Ego! Criminal ego! Most transgressors would go to the electric chair if the newspapers would write enough about them.”

Loris raised her brows. “Is that the reason,” she asked, “why Morphy telephoned before he killed poor father?”

“Exactly!” declared the detective. “Ego explains much that we call revenge. Now,” he added, glancing about and at a tiny clock on a cabinet. “Now the questions from everybody! Make them short. Mr. Delaney and I will leave in ten minutes.”

Nichols glanced at Loris. “You first,” he said.

“I’ve just one or two, Mr. Drew,” she said.

“What are they?”

“Why did that poor dead man spare my life when he called me up the first time? He could have killed me then.”

“I explained that. It wasn’t his vendetta.”

“Vendetta?”

“That is what this case is. An almost successful attempt to wipe out, or I should say obliterate, the Stockbridge Family—root and branch. Morphy had nursed the thing for over a year. He had soured up there in prison. His mind became abnormal. He conceived an abnormal revenge. Also a personal one. He had every reason to believe that he would never be discovered.”

“Then, Mr. Drew, he would have called me up on the phone later and done what he did—to father? He would have told me who he was over the telephone, and—and––”

“Yes, Miss Stockbridge. Yes, be calm, though. He is beyond the pale now. You will never hear from him again. Be assured of that!”

Drew leaned in his chair and glanced at Delaney. The big operative fidgeted in his seat, squirmed, reached for the tea-pot, then drew back his hand and started drumming the table with his fingers.

Nichols disengaged his arm from behind Loris and squared his shoulders. He moved forward. “I’m going to ask a question for Miss Stockbridge,” he said. “Did you ever suspect her?”

“Never!” declared Drew.

“Or me?”

The detective hesitated before he answered. His smile cleared the air as he said. “Once—for about an hour. That was when I found out that you were partly German. I got over it, though.”

“So did I,” declared Nichols. “I got over the German part in no time. I enlisted!”

“That’s a good answer! The best one I know!”

Delaney turned to his chief. He drew in his legs. “There’s a question I’d like to ask,” he said.

“What is it?”

“That magpie?”

Drew eyed Loris. “It’s her bird now,” he said. “She may not want it dragged back here again. I shouldn’t think she would.”

“I don’t!” exclaimed Loris. “I wish that you would explain how you followed the clew, though. It talks so seldom, and then when it does talk it says such nonsense it’s a perfect enigma.”

“That bird,” said Drew, “was the fine turning point of the case. Before it was brought into the office, downtown, I had no clew to start from. There was no indication to show from whence the blow had fallen. Your father was slain for a motive. He was talking to Morphy when he died. Cuthbert had connected the two men.”

“Through the two booths?” asked Loris.

“Yes. Through the booths at Grand Central. Their conversation was probably a brief one. Morphy undoubtedly gloated a minute or two, then told Mr. Stockbridge that his time had come on this earth. Naturally Mr. Stockbridge asked who was talking. Morphy answered by stating who he was, and also that he was at Sing Sing. Mr. Stockbridge repeated this statement aloud. He probably said, ‘What, Sing Sing?’ or ‘Ah, Ossining!’ or words to that effect. The bird heard it and remembered it.”

“How strange!” exclaimed Nichols.

“Not at all,” said Drew, leaning forward. “It was just like a magpie to pick out the one salient part of a conversation and repeat it. The couplet ‘Sing Sing’ was one it had never heard. It is so striking to even a bird. It probably came with such emphasis, there was no forgetting it!”

The group facing the detective was silent for a long minute. Delaney moved uneasily as Nichols toyed with his cup. Loris breathed in suppressed wonder at the tiny clew which had overthrown the best laid plans on the part of Morphy and his confederate. It was like an echo of a dead voice coming back to confront a murderer. She shivered as she widened her eyes and stared at Drew.

“There’s another question,” she said. “How did the trouble-man get into this house in the first place, Mr. Drew?”

“I was responsible. He forced my hand!”

“How?”

“By a clever subterfuge. He disconnected the library telephone wires at the junction-box in the alley. He knew that sooner or later Mr. Stockbridge would try to use the ’phone. He couldn’t get a connection, or I couldn’t. It was the time I tried to ’phone and then notified Gramercy Hill Exchange through another ’phone. He was listening in and consequently caught the gist of my orders to Harrigan. He hurried to Gramercy Hill Exchange and there met Frisby, another trouble-man, starting out to investigate my complaint. He took Frisby’s place, hurried over and closed the library connection and then came into the house, stating that we had sent for him.”

“Clever,” said Nichols. “That was clever, wasn’t it?”

“Remarkably so!” exclaimed Drew. “It was a case of making the detective on the premises act as a tool. It was like a safeblower asking a night watchman to move a safe out on a truck. I never suspected that fellow at all. I hardly looked at him when he was testing the connections in the library. I even heard him rattling a pair of pliers over the binding posts on the receiver. That was the time he took the old one off and put on the loaded pistol. It was done very quickly.”

The detective paused and glanced at his watch. “We must go,” he said, staring at Loris with soft interest. “I’m afraid we’re keeping you from your sleep.”

“No. I want to ask you another question,” she said eagerly. “I’m still in doubt about the slot booths at Grand Central. Why were they used?”

“As a throw off! That is what the English would call shunting. Electricians use the same word. It means diverting a current or a connection. Cuthbert did this so that his trail would be harder to check up. He thought of almost everything.”

“He missed his vocation!” interjected Nichols.

“And misused his talents,” added Loris. “Think of being clever enough to do all of those things, and stoop to murder. He paid ten times over. He must have been under that man Morphy’s power. So many men were. I heard father say that when Morphy was arrested. He said Morphy was the most dangerous man in the world. That he would cause trouble sooner or later.”

Drew rose and nodded. “He did that!” he exclaimed with conviction. “He came very close to getting away with it. But for the magpie and the fact that he ’phoned from the prison at the same time your father was murdered, there would have been no clew. Cuthbert would have entered this house after you were slain, and removed the receiver. That would have thrown the case into one of the unsolved mysteries. Electricity is a dangerous tool in the hands of clever crooks.”

“It leaves no trace!” said Delaney, rising and standing by his chief. “It isn’t made out of anything except little shakes in the wire or something like that.”

Drew smiled good-naturedly. “It’s a mystery to most people,” he said, turning toward the windows and listening. “It’s a bigger mystery to a woman than to a man,” he added. “It’s a good agent if properly used and kept within bounds. It brings back life as well as takes it. It creates and also destroys. No one knows what it is. All that we do know about it is its action on material substances—the power to transform mechanical energy into vibrations and then back again into mechanical energy.”

“Like a voice on a wire?” asked Loris.

“Yes, Miss Stockbridge. The mechanical vibration of a diaphragm in a telephone transmitter is changed to electrical vibrations, passes along a wire and changes back to the same thing we had at the beginning. Cuthbert took advantage of this fact. All that was sent into the library was Morphy’s voice on the wire. The wire left no trace. The voice actuated the diaphragm and at the same time the fine heating coil at the cap on the cartridge. The energy of the voice was sufficient to raise the temperature of the coil. This raise in temperature flashed some compound set in the wire. The flash started the fulminate of mercury in the cap. The cap exploded the smokeless powder. It was a series of steps each a little higher than the one below it.”

“Was there any other way of doing the same thing?” Nichols inquired, as he rose lankily and stood over Loris.

“Yes!” declared Drew. “I can look back over what I found in the technical books about electricity and telephony and see several other ways for Cuthbert to accomplish the same result. The electrical pistol did not necessarily have to be actuated by the human voice.”

“How terrible!” Loris whispered, with her brow puckering. “Perhaps others will use the same idea to slay their enemies.”

“We’ll keep it a close secret,” the detective said. “It rests with us four, now. Outside of us, there is only Morphy who knows.”

“How else could the pistol be discharged?”

“Two other ways that I see, Miss Stockbridge. It would be rather easy to arrange a little magnetic trigger in the receiver. This trigger could be actuated by an excess of current—say the connecting of a hundred and ten volt lighting circuit on the line. It might burn out the magnet wiring, but it would also release the trigger and fire the cartridge.”

“That’s like a door-catch?”

“Yes,” said Drew. “Like a door-catch operated by a magnet or like the firing pin of a large cannon. They’re not all operated by lanyards. Some work with push-buttons.”

Nichols passed his hand over his brow. “I know another way,” he said, glancing down at Loris. “There is a way which is far cleverer than Cuthbert thought of. It could be done by a tuning-fork or reed.”

“Certainly!” exclaimed Drew. “I never thought of that. A reed attuned to a certain voice could be adapted to trip a trigger. Then the loaded receiver could be set so that one of your friends who had a peculiar voice, either high or low, would slay you. Rather terrifying revenge, that!”

“Beyond the pale!” said Nichols. “It’s too bad this man Cuthbert didn’t exercise one-tenth of his genius in perfecting war inventions. He’d have helped us a lot.”

Drew nodded and strode to the curtains at a side window. He peered out, rubbed the frosted panes, and pressed his nose against the glass.

“Stopped snowing!” he exclaimed, coming back and clasping Delaney’s arm. “You hurry downstairs and telephone Fosdick that we are waiting for him. Tell him to notify the coroner that there’s a subject here which will interest him. We’ll not explain everything to either the coroner or Fosdick. No one save us shall know the secret of the receiver.”

“Delaney,” said Nichols, as the big operative started through the portières. “Mr. Delaney.”

“Yes!” boomed back through the room.

“Ask the Commissioner if he will release Miss Stockbridge’s servants. It was an outrage.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Drew, striding to the portières. “Tell him I said so, Delaney. Tell him just what you think. Give it to him strong! He bungled and he don’t deserve a bit of sympathy.”

“Mr. Drew?”

The detective wheeled on one heel and glanced back at Loris, who had risen and was standing with her arm linked within Nichols’. “Mr. Drew,” she repeated with slow insistence, “won’t you have another cup of tea before you go?”

“That I will, Miss Stockbridge. We three shall drink to the end of the case. Have you asked all the questions you want to? I want to forget this night as soon as possible. You were too close to death to suit me.”

“I don’t think of any more questions,” said Loris, disengaging her arm and gliding across the room. “We’ll get the tea. There is one matter. I want to pay you for your splendid services.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Drew. “Ah, Miss Stockbridge, they were far from being splendid. I lost my reputation in the first instance. I should never have allowed your father to remain alone in the library. That was very short-sighted on my part.”

“You couldn’t think of everything.”

“I underestimated the gravity of the situation.”

“Perhaps father didn’t explain how dangerous his enemies really were.”

“No, I don’t think it was that, exactly. I had been reading so many accounts of German spies that I connected this case with one of them. I took precautions against anything that a German might think of. I didn’t figure on super-brains of the criminal order. Cuthbert Morphy had them!”

The maid appeared with the tray and hot water. Drew took the cup from Loris with a bow. He allowed the tea to cool as he glanced at the two lovers. They had grown closer together over the time of the investigation. Nichols had that poise which is given to well-trained army men. He never said too much. This was a trait which pleased the detective immensely. It spoke volumes for Loris and her judgment in placing her trust in him.

“I actually hate to leave you people,” Drew said, finishing the cup. “But I must be on my way.”

Loris arched her dark brows. Her mouth parted into a soft smile. Her eyes glistened with moisture. “Harry is going, too,” she said, glancing from Drew to Nichols. “He has to go! I’ll sleep upstairs in mother’s old room to-night. The maid can watch. Perhaps the butler will be back.”

“He’ll be back!” ejaculated the detective, adjusting his coat collar and stroking his mustache. “I’ll see to that if I have to go over Fosdick’s thick head. You can expect all of your servants within an hour.”

Heavy footfalls on the rugs outside the suite announced Delaney. He came through the portières rubbing his hands in the manner of a man who was well-satisfied with his errand.

“I got them!” he boomed, glancing from Drew to Nichols and then letting his eyes shine on Loris. “I got Fosdick, first. I told him what I thought of him, too. I don’t like him. Never did! He said he’d be right up and see about things. He can see!” The big operative swung toward his chief.

“How about the coroner?” asked Drew.

“He’s coming as fast as his hurry-up wagon will let him. I told him there was another—well, you know what I told him, Chief?”

The detective lifted his lowered brows. “Yes! Yes!” he said hastily, after a keen glance at Loris. “Yes. You did right. Now, get into the other room and gather up all of the tools and plaster-casts and every scrap of our own evidence. Put them in the trouble-man’s satchel. Set the satchel outside the door to the hall. Then wait for me. I’ll be but a minute.”

Delaney paused. “There’s one thing,” he said in a half stammer––“One thing, Chief, that’s been troubling me while I was ’phoning to the coroner and to Fosdick.”

“What is it?”

“If I can have that magpie? I’m going to give it to my wife—Mary—if I can. There’s no bird in the house.”

Drew turned toward Loris who had drawn Nichols to a window.

“Can he have it, Miss Stockbridge?” he asked.

“Certainly!”

“Thanks,” throated the operative, passing through the portières with renewed energy. “Thanks,” he added under his breath as he started picking up the plaster casts and tools. “That’s how we caught ‘Cutbert,’ and I’ll nurse the bird like a Grand Opera singer.”

Loris glided from out the curtains and crossed the room. She stood a moment under a cone of soft light which reflected downward and brought out every detail of her gown and girlish figure. She turned and smiled widely at Drew who stood by the portières.

“I’ve almost forgotten something,” she said, drawing out a chair and sitting down with a graceful sweep of her skirt. “I’ve forgotten that you are tired and that you have worked hard.”

“Not at all,” said Drew.

“Yes, you are tired and you have worked very hard. Harry will bear me out in that. He was just saying that you would make a good major of overseas forces. Why don’t you join the army?”

Drew reached into his right hand trouser pocket. He brought his hand out with a small gold badge between his fingers. “I’ve already joined the army,” he said. “This is a Secret Service badge. Don’t you know that much work can be done over on this side? A burnt warehouse, for instance, is equal to a victory for the Kaiser. My agency is almost exclusively devoted to Government work. We never mention it, though.”

“I see,” said Loris, reaching into a pigeonhole and drawing out a small yellow check-book. “I’m glad,” she added, picking up a mother-of-pearl penholder and inspecting the pen-point. “I rather thought you would do your share. I think everybody should to the limit of their pocketbook and ability. Harry is.”

Drew bowed slightly. “That’s right, stick by Harry,” he said to himself. “She’s a sticker and then some,” he added, frowning toward the check-book and the poised pen.

“Mr. Drew?”

The detective took one step in her direction. He waited then.

“Mr. Drew, how much money do I owe you? I’ll pay you out of my account until the estate is settled.”

The detective smiled broadly. “Nothing,” he said, toying with his watch chain. “I don’t think you owe me anything in this case.”

“Oh, but I do!”

“I don’t think so. Your father retained me. He was—was slain through my own carelessness. I think I owe you something.”

“I can’t let it remain that way.” Loris turned and widened her eyes. A tiny pout sweetened her mouth. Nichols came across the rugs and stood by her side. He turned to Drew.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “You certainly earned your fee in this case. Why, you look five years older than when you came up into my rooms with that little pistol!”

Drew touched his mustache. He closed his lips. Fatigue swept over him as he said huskily:

“I’ve aged, yes. Well, I guess I have. The responsibility was more than I expected.”

“How much?” asked Loris, opening the check-book.

Drew raised his eyes to the ceiling. A faint smile brightened his olive skin and brought out the fullness of his cheeks.

“Five thousand dollars,” he said, without glancing at Loris.

She dipped the pen into the ink well, leaned her elbow on the leaf of the writing desk and hastily scratched a check with angular writing which had certainly been cultivated in a select boarding school. She turned, waved the check in the air, then rose and advanced toward the detective, who had not lowered his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, holding out the oblong of tinted paper. “I want to thank you.”

Nichols stared at the detective. The soldier’s eyes were like bayonets beneath a parapet. He had thought the figure rather high. Loris had no one to advise her save himself and the presence of Drew had tied his tongue.

“I want to thank you,” repeated Loris.

Drew lowered his eyes and reached for the check. He glanced at it, started folding two edges, then smiled brightly as he crossed the room, picked up the mother-of-pearl penholder and dipped it into the ink.

“I’ll endorse it,” he said, flattening out the check with his palm. “I’ll endorse it so that it can be transferred.”

“To whom?” asked Loris.

“Why, to where it belongs. Do you think that I could take it? It’s too much in the first place. In the second place I’m going to do my full bit from now on. What do you say, if we endorse this over to the American Red Cross? It’ll buy beds and bandages and it’ll help out all around!”

Loris lifted her eyes beneath her down dropping lashes. She smiled with tiny puckerings at the corners of her mouth. The glance was so archly sweet that Drew felt it was more than a reward. He caught her mood and hastily dashed off his signature across the back of the check.

“You present it to them,” he said. “Take it with my compliments to the treasurer of your own division. I’ll venture they will not question the signature.”

Nichols’ hand crept out. It clasped over Drew’s fingers in a soldier’s grip. The two men faced each other. Drew reached up his left arm and patted the captain on the shoulder. “Two bars,” he said. “I hope to see stars there,” he added sincerely. “Stars, when you come back from the conquest of Berlin.”

“They’ll be there!” declared Loris with flashing eyes. “Harry will get them!”

Delaney peered through the portières despite his instructions to the contrary.

“All set, Chief,” he said. “I hear Fosdick downstairs.”

“Coming,” said Drew, as he turned away from Loris and Nichols.

The two detectives paused in the center of the room. The mound under the splendid rug held their eyes for a fleeting moment. The ends of the telephone wires lay across the hardwood floor. They glanced at these.

“No trace!” said Drew. “We needn’t tell Fosdick much. Come on!”

Delaney held out the detective’s coat and hat. Drew thrust his arms into his silk-lined sleeves, pulled the hat down over his eyes and swung as the big operative turned his shoulder.

“Look,” whispered Delaney.

Loris Stockbridge and her lover stood under the glow from the soft clusters of the inner room of the suite. The captain held his peaked cap in his right hand. He also was departing.

“Turtle-doves,” Delaney breathed with almost pride.

“Ah!” said Drew. “Ah, my friend, you must remember that we were once that way ourselves. But now—but now, Delaney—there is a thing which is sweeter than love’s young dream. It is a tired man’s sleep. I think I have earned mine to-night!”

THE END

ZANE GREY’S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close.

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands—until at last love and faith awake.

DESERT GOLD

The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story’s heroine.

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the story.

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in “that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines.”

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the Mormons—Well, that’s the problem of this great story.

THE SHORT STOP

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win.

BETTY ZANE

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.

THE LONE STAR RANGER

After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.

THE BORDER LEGION

Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him—she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader—and nurses him to health again. Here enters another romance—when Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a thrilling robbery—gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.

THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey

The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, “Buffalo Bill,” as told by his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an Indian. We see “Bill” as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting account of the travels of “The Wild West” Show. No character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than “Buffalo Bill,” whose daring and bravery made him famous.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

KATHLEEN NORRIS’ STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

MOTHER. Illustrated by F. G. Yohn.

This book has a fairy-story touch counterbalanced by the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother’s experiences.

SATURDAY’S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.

Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a quest for happiness. She passes through three stages—poverty, wealth and service—and works out a creditable salvation.

THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.

The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own romance.

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.

How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.

THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.

Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction’s most appealing characters.

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Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

“K.” Illustrated.

K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made the author famous.

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.

An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the “Man in Lower Ten.” The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart’s success are found in this book.

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and most entertainingly told.

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illus. by Lester Ralph.

The summer occupants of “Sunnyside” find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing interest.

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.)

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

R. M. BOWER’S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

CHIP OF THE FLYING U. Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told.

THE HAPPY FAMILY. A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys.

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport for a Montana ranch-house.

THE RANGE DWELLERS. Spirited action, a range feud beween two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story.

THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author among the cowboys.

THE LONESOME TRAIL. A little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes upset “Weary” Davidson’s plans.

THE LONG SHADOW. A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of a mountain ranch. It is a fine love story.

GOOD INDIAN. A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch.

FLYING U RANCH. Another delightful story about Chip and his pals.

THE FLYING U’S LAST STAND. An amusing account of Chip and the other boys opposing a party of school teachers.

THE UPHILL CLIMB. A story of a mountain ranch and of a man’s hard fight on the uphill road to manliness.

THE PHANTOM HERD. The title of a moving-picture staged in New Mexico by the “Flying U” boys.

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. The “Flying U” boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes which precedes a real one for lust of gold.

THE GRINGOS. A story of love and adventure on a ranch in California.

STARR OF THE DESERT. A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure.

THE LOOKOUT MAN. A Northern California story full of action, excitement and love.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL

THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles.

The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in a middle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in his theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could desire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening follows and in the end he works out a solution.

A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As The Inside of the Cup gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so A Far Country deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with other vital issues confronting the twentieth century.

A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J. H. Gardner Soper.

This, Mr. Churchill’s first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It is frankly a modern love story.

MR. CREWE’S CAREER. Illus. by A. I. Keller and Kinneys.

A new England state is under the political domination of a railway and Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president plays no small part in the situation.

THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis.

Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentucky wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers in Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against Washington.

CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn.

A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, a crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman.

THE CELEBRITY. An episode.

An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, keenest fun—and is American to the core.

THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play.

A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring.

RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer.

An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonial times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and interesting throughout.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

THE NOVELS OF GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

GRAUSTARK. Illustrated with Scenes from the Play.

With the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. It is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country.

BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.

This is a sequel to “Graustark.” A bewitching American girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair.

PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by A. I. Keller.

The Prince of Graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of “Graustark.” Beverly’s daughter, and an American multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story.

BREWSTER’S MILLIONS. Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo-Play.

A young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order to inherit seven, accomplishes the task in this lively story.

COWARDICE COURT. Illus. by Harrison Fisher and decorations by Theodore Hapgood.

A romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young American.

THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND. Illustrated by A. I. Keller.

A story of modern New York, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth.

WHAT’S-HIS-NAME. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.

“What’s-His-Name” is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on Broadway under an assumed name. The very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story.

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Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

SEWELL FORD’S STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.

SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for “side-stepping with Shorty.”

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a “conscience fund,” and gives joy to all concerned.

SHORTY McCABE’S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at swell yachting parties.

TORCHY. Illus. by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his experiences.

TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the previous book.

ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy falls desperately in love with “the only girl that ever was,” but that young society woman’s aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations.

TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious American slang.

WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his friend’s aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt’s permission to place an engagement ring on Vee’s finger.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

BOOTH TARKINGTON’S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was Seventeen.

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

This is a picture of a boy’s heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a finished, exquisite work.

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.

Like “Penrod” and “Seventeen,” this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written.

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father’s plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibb’s life from failure to success.

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.

A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a country editor’s life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest.

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The “Flirt,” the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl’s engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.

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Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

THE NOVELS OF STEWART EDWARD WHITE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

THE BLAZED TRAIL. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.

A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan pines.

THE CALL OF THE NORTH. Ills. with Scenes from the Play.

The story centers about a Hudson Bay trading post, known as “The Conjuror’s House” (the original title of the book.)

THE RIVER MAN. Ills. by N. C. Wyeth and C. F. Underwood.

The story of a man’s fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other.

RULES OF THE GAME. Illustrated by Lejaren A. Hiller.

The romance of the son of “The Riverman.” The young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by “graft,” and comes into the romance of his life.

GOLD. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.

The gold fever of ’49 is pictured with vividness. A part of the story is laid in Panama, the route taken by the gold-seekers.

THE FOREST. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.

The book tells of the canoe trip of the author and his companion into the great woods. Much information about camping and outdoor life. A splendid treatise on woodcraft.

THE MOUNTAINS. Illustrated by Fernand Lungren.

An account of the adventures of a five months’ camping trip in the Sierras of California. The author has followed a true sequence of events.

THE CABIN. Illustrated with photographs by the author.

A chronicle of the building of a cabin home in a forest-girdled meadow of the Sierras. Full of nature and woodcraft, and the shrewd philosophy of “California John.”

THE GRAY DAWN. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.

This book tells of the period shortly after the first mad rush for gold in California. A young lawyer and his wife, initiated into the gay life of San Francisco, find their ways parted through his downward course, but succeeding events bring the “gray dawn of better things” for both of them.