STIC MURDER.

Whilst the meal was progressing, a man silently passed through the room.
No one would have guessed that he had any special motive in doing so,
for he noticed no one. Neither would one have supposed that Mr. Barnes
observed him, for he had his back turned. Yet this was the same
individual who upon his instruction had followed Rose Mitchel when she
left the train.

Breakfast over, the two men started to leave the restaurant. Reaching
the stairway which leads above to the main floor, Mr. Barnes courteously
stood aside to allow his companion to ascend first. Mr. Mitchel,
however, with a wave of the hand, declined, and followed Mr. Barnes.
Whether either had any special design in this was a thought occupying
the minds of both as they silently passed up-stairs. Mr. Mitchel had a
slight advantage, in that being behind he could watch the detective.
There seemed, however, to be little to see. To be sure the man who had
passed through the restaurant was idly leaning against the doorway, but
as soon as Mr. Barnes's head appeared, and certainly before he could
have been noticed by Mr. Mitchel, he stepped out into the street,
crossed over, and disappeared into the bank building opposite. Had any
signal passed between these two detectives? Mr. Mitchel, despite his
shrewdness in sending Mr. Barnes up-stairs ahead of him, saw none, yet
this is what occurred: Mr. Barnes said adieu, and walked away. Mr.
Mitchel stood in the doorway, gazing after him till he saw him enter the
elevated railroad station; then, looking carefully about, he himself
walked rapidly towards Sixth Avenue. He did not glance behind, or he
might have seen the man in the bank step out and walk in the same
direction. They had been gone about five minutes when Mr. Barnes once
more appeared upon the scene. He stopped in the doorway, where the other
detective had been leaning. Keenly scanning the panelling, his eye
presently rested upon what he was seeking. Faintly written in pencil
were the words "No. ---- East Thirtieth." That was all, but it told Mr.
Barnes that Rose Mitchel had been followed to this address, and as it
tallied with that which she herself had given to him, he knew now that
she could be found when wanted. Wetting his finger against the tip of
his tongue, he drew it across the words, leaving nothing but a dirty
smudge.

"Wilson is a keen one," thought the detective. "He did this trick well.
Saw my nod, wrote that address, and got out of