onor of one so prominent in many ways was involved it
was thought best for them to visit him in his own home. To do this
without exciting his apprehension while still making sure of his presence
required some management. Various plans were discussed with the result
that a political exigency was brought into play. The District Attorney
asked Mr. Roberts for an interview for the purpose of introducing to him
a man whose influence could not fail to play an important part in his
future candidacy.

He did not name this man; but we will name him. It was the Chief
Inspector.

The appointment was made and the day set. It was the following Monday. On
Tuesday, Coroner Price was to open his inquest.

Did Carleton Roberts see any connection between these two events?

Who can tell? The secrets of such a brain are not to be read lightly. If
we possessed Sweetwater's interest, and were to follow in secret fashion
every action of the director on the evening preceding this date, what
conclusion should we draw in this regard? How would we characterize his
anticipations, or measure in our own mind the possibilities of the
future as felt by him?

He was very quiet. He ate his meal with seeming appetite. Then he took a
look over his whole house. From the carefulness with which he noted
everything, the changes which he had caused to be made in it were not
without their interest for him. Not a young man's interest, but yet an
interest as critical and acute as though he had expected it to be shared
by one whose comfort he sought and in whose happiness he would fain take
part.

This, to Sweetwater, had he our vision, would have been incomprehensible
from any point of view; especially, had he seen what followed when the
owner of all this luxury returned to his library.

There was a picture there; a small framed photograph which occupied the
post of honor on his desk.

It showed a young and pretty face, untouched, as yet, by the cares or
troubles of this world. He spent a minute or so in looking at it; then he
slowly lifted it, and taking the picture from the frame, gave it another
look, during which a smile almost derisive gathered slowly on his lips.
Before this smile had altogether vanished, he had torn the picture in two
and thrown the fragments into the fire he had kindled early in the
evening with his own hands.

If he stopped to watch these fragments burn, it was from abstraction
rather than from interest; for his step grew ligh