The detective left her in the office of the secretary, and as he made
his adieus to them both he cast a last quick, penetrating glance at
the girl behind the desk. Again that vague sense of resemblance
possessed him. With whom was she connected? Why was her name so
significantly withheld?

In the meantime Guy Morrow, from his post of observation in the window
of the little cottage on Meadow Lane, had watched the object of his
espionage for several fruitless days--fruitless, because the actions
of the man Brunell had been so obviously those of one who felt
himself utterly beyond suspicion.

The erect, gray-haired, clear-eyed man had come and gone about his
business, without the slightest attempt at concealment. A few of the
simplest inquiries of his land-lady had elicited the fact that the
gentleman opposite, old Mr. Brunell, was a map-maker, and worked at
his trade in a little shop in the nearest row of brick buildings
just around the corner--that he had lived in the little cottage since
it had first been erected, six years before, alone with his
daughter Emily, and before that, they had for many years occupied a
small apartment near by--in fact, the girl had grown up in that
neighborhood. He was a quiet man, not very talkative, but well liked
by his neighbors, and his daughter was devoted to him. According
to Mrs. Quinlan, Guy Morrow's aforesaid land-lady, Emily Brunell was a
dear, sweet girl, very popular among the young people in the
neighborhood, but she kept strictly at home in her leisure hours and
preferred her father's companionship to that of anyone else. She
was employed in some business capacity downtown, from nine until
six; just what it was Mrs. Quinlan did not know.

Morrow kept well in the background, in case Mr. Pennold should put in
an appearance again, but he did not. Evidently that conversation
overheard by Suraci had been a final one, concerning the securities at
least, and no one else called at the little cottage door over the way,
except a vapid-faced young man to whom Morrow took an instant and
inexplicable dislike.

Morrow made it a point to visit and investigate the little shop at an
hour when he knew Brunell would not be there, and found in the cursory
examination possible at that time that its purpose seemed to be
strictly legitimate. A shock-headed boy of fifteen or thereabout was
in charge, and the operative easily succeeded in engaging his stolid
attention elsewhere while, with a bit o