e agent stammered a reply to Mark's unwelcome greeting before he
turned. But it was too late, for Mark heard the click that told him
that the tree had closed. He looked for the constable, to see if he
had been watching her and had discovered the secret door; but the
constable was leisurely walking toward the village.

CHAPTER II

MONSIGNORE

As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build,
offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With his
gray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English than
Irish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle--but in vain, for
the Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdained
artifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly,
out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tanned
face with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquiline
nose, the chin slightly squared--the face of one who would seek and
find.

He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of
blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted
Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A
man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look
from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in
feature, bespoke strong determination.

Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against
each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhand
which would be the victor.

The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he
had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing?
Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a
detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How had
she disappeared so quickly?

Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in
the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him
with friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companion
were a fool, or someone "on the inside." He wished that Mark would
stop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. But
Mark went right on.

"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren't
you working?"

Saunders had to think quickly.

"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know."

"Of course. Any success this morning?"

"One ord