ttons were there," the amateur detective answered gravely, "but
the buttonhole next the top one was torn through."

McKnight winked at me furtively.

"I am convinced of one thing," Hotchkiss went on, clearing his throat,
"the papers are not in that room. Either he carries them with him, or he
has sold them."

A sound on the street made both my visitors listen sharply. Whatever it
was it passed on, however. I was growing curious and the restraint was
telling on McKnight. He has no talent for secrecy. In the interval
we discussed the strange occurrence at Cresson, which lost nothing by
Hotchkiss' dry narration.

"And so," he concluded, "the woman in the Baltimore hospital is the wife
of Henry Sullivan and the daughter of the man he murdered. No wonder he
collapsed when he heard of the wreck."

"Joy, probably," McKnight put in. "Is that clock right, Lawrence? Never
mind, it doesn't matter. By the way, Mrs. Conway dropped in the office
yesterday, while you were away."

"What!" I sprang from my chair.

"Sure thing. Said she had heard great things of us, and wanted us to
handle her case against the railroad."

"I would like to know what she is driving at," I reflected. "Is she
trying to reach me through you?"

Richey's flippancy is often a cloak for deeper feeling. He dropped it
now. "Yes," he said, "she's after the notes, of course. And I'll tell
you I felt like a poltroon--whatever that may be--when I turned
her down. She stood by the door with her face white, and told me
contemptuously that I could save you from a murder charge and wouldn't
do it. She made me feel like a cur. I was just as guilty as if I could
have obliged her. She hinted that there were reasons and she laid my
attitude to beastly motives."

"Nonsense," I said, as easily as I could. Hotchkiss had gone to the
window. "She was excited. There are no 'reasons,' whatever she means."

Richey put his hand on my shoulder. "We've been together too long to
let any 'reasons' or 'unreasons' come between us, old man," he said, not
very steadily. Hotchkiss, who had been silent, here came forward in
his most impressive manner. He put his hands under his coat-tails and
coughed.

"Mr. Blakeley," he began, "by Mr. McKnight's advice we have arranged a
little interview here to-night. If all has gone as I planned, Mr.
Henry Pinckney Sullivan is by this time under arrest. Within a very few
minutes--he will be here."

"I wanted to talk to him before he was locke