even the great
Stillwell but briefly referred to the strange compact with Ferris
which had seemed to buy the crafty schemer's silence for one hundred
thousand dollars.

To the astonishment of proud old Detroit, Miss Worthington seemed
to show no desire to open her superb palace home to society, and
the great world slowly crystallized to the conclusion that she had
found a new field in the affairs of the vast estate now absolutely
under her own control.

The beautiful girl seemed to have passed, with a bound, into a
mature womanhood, as if some malign influence had swept away all
the flowers from her path. And, in her daily walks, she avoided
the scores of gallants who now sought that richly dowered hand.

"This is not as it should be," finally decided Witherspoon, whose
firm hand had cleared up all the aftermath of complications arising
from Clayton's murder.

Busied with his own affairs, Witherspoon left the fate of Irma
Gluyas, the friendless Leah, and the corrupted boy to Doctor
William Atwater, whose frequent visits to Detroit were explained
by some vague plan of philanthropic deeds now occupying the mind
of Miss Worthington.

The meaner subordinates of Fritz Braun's crime were all easily
disposed of, for both Lilienthal and Timmins were now serving long
sentences for defrauding the United States customs laws.

And the Newport Art Gallery and the Magdal's Pharmacy were now both
matters of "ancient history."

A mock auction allured the crowd, where the drugstore had long
gathered the degenerates, and a gaudy "Bargain Bazar" flourished
where once Lilienthal's inviting smile had wooed the unwary.

And, as the pernicious smuggling gang had been routed, "smitten hip
and thigh," Witherspoon ceased to pry into the still partly veiled
past. It was only after Sergeant Dennis McNerney had dropped the
very last clue, that Witherspoon finally abandoned his settled
purpose of tracing down Arthur Ferris' supposed connection with
the crime which swept Randall Clayton out of the world. "It's no
use, sir!" muttered the sergeant, "He was capable of anything, but
he stands clear of the whole thing!"

The prosperous sergeant had sifted to the very dregs the fullest
confessions of the passionate-hearted Hungarian beauty, and the
defenceless Leah.

The complete history of "August Meyer" in Brooklyn had been traced
out, and McNerney triumphantly demonstrated the uselessness of
further search in No. 192 Layte Street