drawing in the fresh March air, sweet with the
breath of approaching spring. The fog of last night had vanished,
leaving no trace. He caught the scent of Southern lilacs from an
adjoining florist shop.

He took the stairs three at a time.

"Chief in yet?" he inquired of Jamieson, the news editor, who looked up
in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.

"No, he's not down yet. You've broken your record."

Frank nodded.

"I've got to get away early."

Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through
his papers. He unfolded his _Times_, his mind intent upon the problem
of the missing millionaire. He had not seen Doris since that night in
the box. The first paper under his hand was an early edition of a rival
evening journal.

He glanced down at the headlines on the front page, then with a
horrified cry he sprang to his feet He was pale, and the hand which
gripped the paper shook.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed.

Jamieson swung round in his swivel chair.

"What's up?" he inquired.

"Farrington!" said Frank, huskily. "Farrington has committed suicide!"

"Yes, we've a column about it," remarked Jamieson, complacently. "A
pretty good story." Then suddenly: "You knew him?" he asked.

Frank Doughton lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been
drained. "I--I was with him at the theatre on the night he disappeared,"
he said.

Jamieson whistled softly.

Doughton rose hurriedly and reached for his hat.

"I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris----" he broke
off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.

Jamieson looked at him sympathetically.

"Why don't you go round to Brakely Square?" he suggested. "There may be
new developments--possibly a mistake. You note that the body has not
been discovered."

Out upon the pavement, Frank caught a passing taxi.

He drove first to the city offices which were Farrington's headquarters.
A short talk with the chief clerk was more than enlightening. A brief
note in the handwriting of the millionaire announced his intention,
"tired of the world," to depart therefrom.

"But why?" asked the young man, in bewilderment.

"Mr. Doughton, you don't seem to quite realize the importance of this
tragedy," said the chief clerk, quietly. "Mr. Farrington was a financial
king--a multi-millionaire. Or at least, he was so considered up till
this morning. We have examined his private books, and it now appears
that he h