of the murdered man. All day long the body had lain in
the Mortuary, visited by a constant stream of the curious, but
presumably unrecognized. Laverick could scarcely believe the words
he read. The thing seemed ludicrously impossible. The twenty
thousand pounds must have come from some one. Why did they keep
silence? What was the mystery about it? Could it be that they were
not in a position to disclose the fact? Curiously enough, this
unnatural absence of news inspired him with something which was
almost fear. He had taken his risks boldly enough. Now that Fate
was playing him this unexpectedly good turn, he was conscious of a
growing nervousness. Who could he have been, this man? Whence
could he have derived this great sum? One person at least must
know that he had been robbed--the man who murdered him must know
it. A cold shiver passed through Laverick's veins at the thought.
Somewhere in London there must be a man thirsting for his blood,
a man who had committed a murder in vain and been robbed of his
spoil.

Laverick had no engagements for that evening, but instead of going
to his club he drove straight to his rooms, meaning to change a
little early for dinner and go to a theatre, lie found there,
however, a small boy waiting for him with a note in his hand. It
was addressed in pencil only, and his name was printed upon it.

Laverick tore it open with a haste which he only imperfectly
concealed. There was something ominous to him in those printed
characters. Its contents, however, were short enough.

DEAR LAVERICK,
I must see you. Come the moment you get this. Come without fail,
for your own sake and mine. A. M.

Laverick looked at the boy. His fingers were trembling, but it
was with relief. The note was from Morrison.

"There is no address here," he remarked.

"The gent said as I was to take you back with me," the boy answered.

"Is it far?" Laverick asked.

"Close to Red Lion Square," the boy declared. "Not more nor five
minutes in one of them taxicabs. The gent said we was to take
one. He is in a great hurry to see you."

Laverick did not hesitate a moment.

"Very well," he said, "we'll start at once."

He put on his hat again and waited while the commissionaire called
them a taxicab.

"What address?" he asked.

"Number 7, Theobald Square," the boy said. Laverick nodded and
repeated the address to the driver.

"What the dickens can Morrison be doing in a part like