them? Yet had not he been seeking deliberately to betray her
and those she loved, under the guise of friendship? Was he any better
than she or her father?

Then, too, another thought came to him. Might she not be the tool,
consciously or unconsciously, of a nefarious plot?

He felt that he could not rest until he had brought his investigations
to a conclusion which would be satisfactory to himself, even if he
decided in the end, for her sake, never to divulge to Henry Blaine the
discoveries he might make.

A few days later, however, Morrow received instructions from Blaine
himself, which forced his hand. The time had come for him to use the
skeleton-key which he had had made. He must proceed that night to
investigate the little shop of the map-maker and look there for
the evidence which would incriminate him--the photographic and
electrotyping apparatus.

Early in the evening he heard Emily's soft voice as she called across
the street in pleasant greeting to Miss Quinlan, but he could not
bring himself to go out upon the little porch and speak to her,
although he did not doubt his welcome.

He waited until all was dark and still before he started upon his
distasteful errand. It was very cold, and the streets were deserted. A
fine dry snow was falling, which obliterated his footprints almost as
soon as he made them, and he reached the now familiar door of the
little shop without meeting a soul abroad save a lonely policeman
dozing in a doorway. He let himself into the shop with his key and
flashed his pocket lamp about. All appeared the same as in the
day-time. The maps were rolled in neat cases or fastened upon the
wall. The table, the press, the binder were each in their proper
place.

Morrow went carefully over every inch of the room and the curtained
recess back of it, but could find no evidence such as he sought. At
length, however, just before the little desk in the corner where James
Brunell kept his modest accounts, the detective's foot touched a metal
ring in the floor. Stepping back from it, he seized the ring and
pulled it. A small square section of the flooring yielded, and the
raising of the narrow trap-door disclosed a worn, sanded stone
stairway leading down into the cellar beneath.

Blaine's operative listened carefully but no sound came from the
depths below him; so after a time, with his light carefully shielded,
he essayed a gingerly descent. On the bottom step he paused. There was
small need