ped to his feet.

"That's no signature of Pennington Lawton," he exulted to himself. "I
thought I knew that fine hand, perfectly as the forgery has been done.
That's the work of James Brunell, by the Lord!"

CHAPTER IV

THE SEARCH

Henry Blaine, the man of decision, wasted no time in vain thought.
Instantly, upon his discovery that the signature of Pennington Lawton
had been forged, and that it had been done by an old and well-known
offender, he touched the bell on his desk, which brought his
confidential secretary.

"Has Guy Morrow returned yet from that blackmail case in Denver?"

"Yes, sir. He's in his private office now, making out his report to
you."

A moment later, there entered a tall, dark young man, strong and
muscular in build, but not apparently heavy, with a smooth face and
firm-set jaw.

"I haven't finished my report yet, sir--"

"The report can wait. You remember James Brunell, the forger?"

"James Brunell?" Morrow repeated. "He was before my time, of course,
but I've heard of him and his exploits. Pretty slick article, wasn't
he! I understand he has been dead for years--at least nothing has been
heard of his activities since I have been in the sleuth game."

"Did you ever hear of any of his associates?"

"I can't say that I have, sir, except Crimmins and Dolan; Crimmins
died in San Quentin before his time was up; Dolan after his release
went to Japan."

"I want to find Brunell. His closest associate was Walter Pennold. I
think Pennold is living somewhere in Brooklyn, and through him you may
be able to locate Brunell--"

Morrow shrugged his shoulders.

"A retired crook in the suburbs. That's going to take time."

"Not the way we'll work it. Listen."

The next morning, a tall, dark young man, strong and muscular in
build, with a smooth face and firm-set jaw, appeared at the Bank of
Brooklyn & Queens, and was immediately installed as a clerk, after a
private interview with the vice-president.

His fellow clerks looked at him askance at first, for they knew there
had been no vacancy, and there was a long waiting list ahead of him,
but the young man bore himself with such a quiet, modest air of
_camaraderie_ about him that by the noon hour they had quite accepted
him as one of themselves.

During the morning a package came to the bank and a letter which read
in part:

... I am returning these securities to you in the hope that
you may be able to place them in the po