miled genially.

"Well, that bein' the case," said Butler, finally taking the leap, with
many mental reservations, however, "I'll be plain with you. My name's
not Scanlon. It's Butler. I live in Philadelphy. There's a man there, a
banker by the name of Cowperwood--Frank A. Cowperwood--"

"Wait a moment," said Martinson, drawing an ample pad out of his pocket
and producing a lead-pencil; "I want to get that. How do you spell it?"

Butler told him.

"Yes; now go on."

"He has a place in Third Street--Frank A. Cowperwood--any one can show
you where it is. He's just failed there recently."

"Oh, that's the man," interpolated Martinson. "I've heard of him. He's
mixed up in some city embezzlement case over there. I suppose the reason
you didn't go to our Philadelphia office is because you didn't want our
local men over there to know anything about it. Isn't that it?"

"That's the man, and that's the reason," said Butler. "I don't care to
have anything of this known in Philadelphy. That's why I'm here. This
man has a house on Girard Avenue--Nineteen-thirty-seven. You can find
that out, too, when you get over there."

"Yes," agreed Mr. Martinson.

"Well, it's him that I want to know about--him--and a certain woman,
or girl, rather." The old man paused and winced at this necessity of
introducing Aileen into the case. He could scarcely think of it--he was
so fond of her. He had been so proud of Aileen. A dark, smoldering rage
burned in his heart against Cowperwood.

"A relative of yours--possibly, I suppose," remarked Martinson,
tactfully. "You needn't tell me any more--just give me a description if
you wish. We may be able to work from that." He saw quite clearly what a
fine old citizen in his way he was dealing with here, and also that the
man was greatly troubled. Butler's heavy, meditative face showed it.
"You can be quite frank with me, Mr. Butler," he added; "I think I
understand. We only want such information as we must have to help you,
nothing more."

"Yes," said the old man, dourly. "She is a relative. She's me daughter,
in fact. You look to me like a sensible, honest man. I'm her father, and
I wouldn't do anything for the world to harm her. It's tryin' to save
her I am. It's him I want." He suddenly closed one big fist forcefully.

Martinson, who had two daughters of his own, observed the suggestive
movement.

"I understand how you feel, Mr. Butler," he observed. "I am a father
myself. We'll do all we c