him. But I did not even know where they
were."

"And you were not on the wrecked Washington Flier?" persisted Hotchkiss.
But McKnight interfered.

"There is no use trying to put the other man's identity on Stuart, Mr.
Hotchkiss," he protested. "He has been our confidential clerk for six
years, and has not been away from the office a day for a year. I am
afraid that the beautiful fabric we have pieced out of all these scraps
is going to be a crazy quilt." His tone was facetious, but I could
detect the undercurrent of real disappointment.

I paid the constable for his trouble, and he departed. Stuart, still
indignant, left to go back to Washington Circle. He shook hands with
McKnight and myself magnanimously, but he hurled a look of utter hatred
at Hotchkiss, sunk crestfallen in his chair.

"As far as I can see," said McKnight dryly, "we're exactly as far along
as we were the day we met at the Carter place. We're not a step nearer
to finding our man."

"We have one thing that may be of value," I suggested. "He is the
husband of a bronze-haired woman at Van Kirk's hospital, and it is just
possible we may trace him through her. I hope we are not going to lose
your valuable co-operation, Mr. Hotchkiss?" I asked.

He roused at that to feeble interest, "I--oh, of course not, if you
still care to have me, I--I was wondering about--the man who just went
out, Stuart, you say? I--told his landlady to-night that he wouldn't
need the room again. I hope she hasn't rented it to somebody else."

We cheered him as best we could, and I suggested that we go to Baltimore
the next day and try to find the real Sullivan through his wife. He left
sometime after midnight, and Richey and I were alone.

He drew a chair near the lamp and lighted a cigarette, and for a time we
were silent. I was in the shadow, and I sat back and watched him. It
was not surprising, I thought, that she cared for him: women had always
loved him, perhaps because he always loved them. There was no disloyalty
in the thought: it was the lad's nature to give and crave affection.
Only--I was different. I had never really cared about a girl before,
and my life had been singularly loveless. I had fought a lonely battle
always. Once before, in college, we had both laid ourselves and our
callow devotions at the feet of the same girl. Her name was Dorothy--I
had forgotten the rest--but I remembered the sequel. In a spirit of
quixotic youth I had relinquished my claim i