nor.

"Of all this, not a single word, even to Witherspoon, until the two
suspected ones are secretly arrested. Not a human being must know
of the arrest, as we will use either one of the arrested to guide
me to the hiding place of the murderer.

"I hope by to-morrow night that you will know all but the fact of
the chief criminal's arrest! To effect his arrest, I myself must
risk life and even my reputation. Witherspoon and I have toiled
in secret since the disappearance of Clayton.

"With you, we will win; without you, the murderer may escape. One
hint of danger, and he would take flight and be lost in Europe's
uncounted millions, perhaps in Asia."

Alice Worthington's beaming eyes told of her new pledge of secrecy,
as she stood, a beautiful Peri, finger on lip, while Witherspoon
brought the stalwart McNerney into the library.

The young officer, in plain, dark clothes, with severely shaven
lip, was the ideal of a resolute young Irish priest, saving his
Roman collar.

But his steady eye kindled as Witherspoon tersely recounted to the
astonished heiress the discovery of the pocketbook, the picture
label, the secret visits to the deserted mansion, No. 192 Layte
Street, and the results of all his private researches.

The policeman sprang to his feet as the lawyer logically recounted
his casual visits to the Newport Art Gallery, on finding a similar
Danube picture in the window.

"In my opinion," sharply concluded Jack, "this Adolph Lilienthal
knows something. His glib lie that there was no duplicate of the
artist proof in America fell flat when I reminded him that I had
recently seen one in New York. After looking over his memorandums,
he admitted that he had sold one to Mr. Randall Clayton some weeks
before his unfortunate death.

"Now," the lawyer cried, with positive deduction, "that picture
had been addressed to Fraeulein Irma Gluyas, No. 192 Layte Street,
Brooklyn. I have the very label. Her name was found pencilled on
the card in poor Randall's pocketbook. Who can find the missing
thread to follow on this darkened path?"

"I can," stoutly said McNerney. "Somebody who was anxious to get
Clayton out of the way used some pretty face as a lure! She was
thrown across his path, God knows how! The vilest crimes here are
concocted often in gilded luxury. He was undoubtedly killed in
Brooklyn. This woman helped to get him there! Two people must be
let alone, absolutely undisturbed. One is Lilienthal, and