ch set in its trim
garden, and stopped at the fourth cottage.

With a last furtive backward glance, Pennold mounted the steps and
rang the bell nervously. The door was opened from within so suddenly
that it seemed as if the man who faced his visitor on the threshold
must have been awaiting the summons. He stepped quickly out, shutting
the door behind him, and for a short space the two stood talking in
low tones--Pennold eagerly, insistently, the other man evasively,
slowly, as if choosing his words with care. He was as erect as Pennold
was shambling and stoop-shouldered, and although gray and lined of
features, his eyes were clear and more steady, his chin more firm, his
whole bearing more elastic and forceful.

He did not invite his visitor to enter, and the colloquy between them
was brief. It was significant that they did not shake hands, but
parted with a brief though not unfriendly nod. The tall man turned and
re-entered his house, closing the door again behind him, while
Pennold scuttled away, without a farewell glance. It might have been
well had he looked once more over his shoulder, for there, crouching
against the veranda rail where he had managed to overhear the last of
the conversation, was that short, swarthy figure which had followed so
indefatigably on his trail for three days--which had clung to him,
closely but unseen, through all his devious journey of that morning.
Suraci had not failed.

He tailed Pennold to his home, then went in person with his report to
the great Blaine himself, who heard him through in silence, and then
brought his mighty fist down upon his desk with a blow which made the
massive bronze ink-well quiver.

"That's our man! You've got him, Suraci. Good work! Now wait a little;
I want you to take some instructions yourself over to Morrow."

The next day the Pennolds missed the cheery greeting of their new
friend, the bank-clerk. Since the acquaintanceship had been so
recently formed, it was odd that they should have been as deeply
concerned over his defection as they were. They said little that
evening, but when his absence continued the second day, Pennold
himself ambled down to the Brooklyn & Queens Bank and reluctantly
deposited twenty dollars, merely for the pleasure of a chat with young
Hicks. The latter's cheery face failed to greet him, however, within
its portals, and a craftily worded inquiry merely elicited the
information that he was no longer connected with that inst