he cellar was open, and Morrow flung himself wildly down
the sanded steps. The forger's outfit had disappeared.

What had become of Jimmy Brunell? His purpose served, had Paddington
betrayed him to the police, or had some warning reached him to flee
before it was too late?

With mingled emotions of fear and dread, Morrow emerged from the
little dismantled shop and made the best of his way to Meadow Lane.
The Brunell cottage appeared much as usual as he neared it, and for
an instant hope surged up within him. Emily would be at the club, of
course. If her father had been arrested, or had succeeded in getting
away safely alone, she would not know of it until she came back in the
evening. He would wait for her, intercept her, and tell her the whole
truth.

Instead of entering his own lodgings, he crossed the road, and paused
at the Brunells' gate. Something forlorn and desolate in the
atmosphere of the little home seemed to clutch at his heart, and on a
swift impulse he strode up the path, ascended the steps of the porch
and peered in the window of the living-room. Everything in the usually
orderly room was topsy-turvy, and everywhere there was evidence of
hurried flight. From where he stood the desk--her desk--was plainly
visible, its ransacked drawers pulled open, the floor before it strewn
with torn and scattered papers. Its top was bare, amid the surrounding
litter, and even his photograph which he had recently given her, and
which usually stood there in the little frame she had made for it with
her own hands, was gone.

A chill settled about his heart. Had Brunell been captured, and police
detectives searched the house, his picture could hold no interest for
them. Had the old forger fled alone, he would not have taken so
insignificant an object from among all his household goods and
chattels. Emily alone would have paused to save the photograph of the
man she loved from the wreckage of her home; Emily, too, had gone!

Scarcely knowing what he was doing, and caring less, Morrow rushed
across the street, and descended upon Mrs. Quinlan, his landlady, at
her post in the kitchen.

"What's happened to the Brunells?" he demanded breathlessly.

"Land's sakes, but you scared me, Mr. Morrow!" Mrs. Quinlan turned
from the stove with a hurried start, and wiped her plump, steaming
face on her apron. "I should like to know what's happened myself. All
I do know is that they've gone bag and baggage--or as much of it as
they