racket of the big cars as they crossed East End Avenue, and then the
lights on the rear of the caboose, had warned him.

He stopped his car for perhaps fifteen seconds to make sure that the
crossing was clear, then started on again, a bit shaken by the narrow
escape. He bumped cautiously across the railroad tracks.

The rest of the journey was a nightmare. The suburb through which he was
passing seemed to have congealed. Save for the corner lights, there was
no sign of life. The roofs and sidewalks glistened with ice. Occasionally
the car struck a bump and skidded dangerously. Spike had forgotten his
passenger, forgotten the restaurant, the coffee, the weather itself. He
only remembered that he was cold--almost unbearably cold.

Then he began taking note of the houses. There was No. 916. He looked
ahead. These were houses of the poorer type, the homes of laborers
situated on the outer edge of the suburb of East End. Funny--the
handsomely dressed woman--such a poor neighborhood--

He came to a halt before a dilapidated bungalow which squatted darkly in
the night. Stiff with cold, he reached his hand back to the door on the
right of the car, and with difficulty opened it. Then he spoke:

"Here y'are, miss--No. 981!"

There was no answer. Spike repeated:

"Here y'are, miss."

Still no answer. Spike clambered stiffly from the car, circled to the
curb, and stuck his head in the door.

"Here, miss--"

Spike stepped back. Then he again put his head inside the cab.

"Well, I'll be--"

The thing was impossible, and yet it was true. Spike gazed at the seat.
The woman had disappeared!

The thing was absurd; impossible. He had seen her get into the cab at the
Union Station. There, in the front of the car, was her suit-case; but she
had gone--disappeared completely, vanished without leaving a sign.

Momentarily forgetful of the cold, Spike found a match and lighted it.
Holding it cupped in his hands, he peered within the cab. Then he
recoiled with a cry of horror.

For, huddled on the floor, he discerned the body of a man!

CHAPTER II

THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED

The barren trees which lined the broad deserted thoroughfare jutted
starkly into the night, waving their menacing, ice-crusted arms. The
December gale, sweeping westward, shrieked through the glistening
branches. It shrieked warning and horror, howled and sighed, sighed
and howled.

Spike Walters felt suddenly ill. He forgot the cold, and was co