e given me a real home,' he says, 'but I'm not at the bank no
more, and I'm going away. I'm in trouble!' he says. 'I needn't tell
you where I'm goin' for I ain't got a friend who'll ask after me or
care, but I just want to thank you for all your kindness to me, an' to
ask you to accept this present, and give this dollar-bill to Delia,
when she comes in from the fish-store.'

"This is what he give me as a present, ma'am!" Mrs. Lindsay pointed
dramatically to a German silver brooch set with a doubtful garnet, at
her throat. "And I was so broke up over it all, that I forgot and give
Delia the whole dollar, instead of just a quarter, like I should've
done. I s'pose I'd ought to write to his folks, but I don't know where
they are. He comes from up-State somewheres, and I never was one to
pry in a boarder's letters or bureau-drawers. I'm just worried sick
about it all!"

Mrs. Lindsay would have made a superb actress.

When the interview was at an end and Mrs. Pennold had rejoined her
husband, they discussed the disappearance of Alfred Hicks from every
standpoint and came finally to the conclusion that the young
bank-clerk's sporting proclivities had brought him to ruin.

Meanwhile, in a modest cottage in Meadow Lane, in the Bronx, a small
card reading "Room to Let" had been removed from the bay window, and
just behind its curtains a young man sat, his eyes fastened upon the
house across the way--the fourth from the end of the line. He was a
tall, dark young man with a smooth face and firm-set jaw, and his new
land-lady knew him as Guy Morrow.

All at once, as he sat watching, the door of the cottage opened, and a
girl came out. There was nothing remarkable about her; she was quite a
common type of girl: slender, not too tall, with a wealth of red-brown
hair and soft hazel eyes; yet there was something about her which made
Guy Morrow catch his breath; and throwing caution to the winds, he
parted the curtains and leaned forward, looking down upon her. As she
reached the gate, his gaze drew hers, and she lifted her gentle eyes
and looked into his.

Then her lids drooped swiftly; a faint flush tinged her delicate face,
and with lowered head she walked quickly on.

Guy Morrow sank back in his chair, and after the warm glow which had
surged up so suddenly within him, a chill crept about his heart. What
could that slender, brown-haired, clear-eyed girl be to the man he had
been sent to spy upon--to Jimmy Brunell, the forger?