so few guests, you
know. Daddy, somehow, doesn't care for people--as a rule, that is. I'm
awfully glad that he has made an exception with you."

"But surely you have other friends--for instance, that young fellow
I've noticed now and again when he called upon you."

Morrow's thoughts had suddenly turned to that unknown visitor toward
whom he had taken such an unaccountable dislike.

"Young fellow--what young fellow?" Emily Brunell's voice had changed,
slightly, and a reserved little note intruded itself which reminded
Morrow all at once of her father.

"I don't know who he is--I'm such a newcomer in the neighborhood, you
know; but I happened to see him from my window across the way--a
short, dapper-looking young chap with a small, dark mustache."

"Oh! _that_ man." Her lip curled disdainfully. "That's Charley
Pennold. He's no friend of mine. He just comes to see Father now and
again on business. I don't bother to talk to him. I don't think Daddy
likes him very much, either."

She caught her breath in sharply as she spoke, and looked away from
Morrow in sudden reserve. He felt a quick start of suspicion, and
searched her averted face with a keen, penetrating glance.

If this Charley Pennold, whoever he might be, wished to see James
Brunell on legitimate business, why did he not go to his shop openly
and above-board in the day-time? Could he be an emissary from some one
whom the old forger had reason to evade? If he were, did Emily know
for what purpose he came, and was she annoyed at her own error in
involuntarily disclosing his name?

"He is a map-maker, too?" leaped from Morrow's lips.

"He is interested in maps--he gives Daddy large orders for them, I
believe."

Emily spoke too hurriedly, and her tones lacked the ring of sincerity
which was habitual with them.

The trained ear of the detective instantly sensed the difference, and
his heart sank.

So she had lied to him deliberately, and her womanly instinct told her
that he knew it.

She began to talk confusedly of trivialities; and Morrow, seeing that
it would be hopeless to attempt to draw her back to her unguarded
mood, left her soon after--heartsick and dejected.

Should he continue with his investigations, or go to Henry Blaine and
confess that he had failed him? Was this girl, charming and innocent
as she appeared, worth the price of his career--this girl with the
blood of criminals in her veins, who would stoop to lies and deceit to
protect