ay.

It was twenty days later when the poor cobbler Mulholland, whistling
softly, went out and closed the door of his little shop opposite
Mrs. Rachel Meyer's modest apartment. The frightened woman had
only left her rooms at night after the publication of the finding
of Randall Clayton's body.

A horrible, haunting fear now possessed her. She knew the horror of
the deed. Stronger than the terror which bade her avoid the light
of day was the yearning to assure herself of the unruly boy's
safety. "If he is caught, God of Jacob!" she murmured, "I will end
my days in prison."

Even the hammering of the strange Irish cobbler in the noisy hallway
relieved her. She had never looked into that open door but a pair
of gleaming eyes had followed her every movement from under the
disguised policeman's bushy false beard.

"I think that I have the key of the mystery now," gleefully
soliloquized McNerney. "I am tired of playing cobbler Mulholland."

In fact, he needed time for rest and study.

A five-dollar bill had procured him the privilege of copying the
cablegram, when a telegraph boy had stumbled in, two weeks before,
to find Rachel Meyer.

The words "Schebitz-Breslau" had given him no clue; but on this
auspicious day the postman had begged him to aid him in finding
the proper party to receive a valuable registered letter.

The officer's quick eye caught the German stamp, "Value 2000 marks,"
and the words, "Absender, August Meyer." "This is the fellow at
last," muttered McNerney. "The man, August Meyer, who sends this
poor devil of a woman two thousand marks. She is preparing to skip
out. Now, for Mr. Lawyer Witherspoon!"

"The next time that this woman meets the boy, he must be arrested
on one corner by Jim Condon. I will seize upon her! Keeping them
separate and quiet, I may get the story. But I dare not tell the
chief, or I would lose the reward. Witherspoon must trust to me.
I must get that man over there."

CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE YACHT "RAMBLER."

Four days after cobbler Mulholland had sold out his little outfit
to a stranger, James Lennon, whose dingy scrawl, "Shoes Fixed While
You Wait," now stared Mrs. Rachel Meyer in the face, there was a
circle of three earnest conspirators plotting in the interests of
justice in the library of Counsellor Stillwell.

The great house was silent on the golden afternoon, of the famille
Stillwell were busied in their varied occupations. The old lawyer
in his