bottle of champagne. He poured a glass, which Gard drank
gratefully.

Gard heard Langley and Denning moving about their stateroom. The noise
of the terminal rang an iron chorus, accompanied by whistles and the
hiss of escaping steam. The private car was attached to the express, and
the return journey began. His irritated nerves would have set him
tramping pantherwise, but sheer weariness kept him in his chair.
Presently his fellow travelers joined him, but he took little or no heed
of their conversation. Once he drank again, a toast to the successful
issue of their combined efforts. He lay back, striving to control his
rising anxiety. What would the story be that would greet him from the
heavy leads of the newspapers?

"Baltimore--Baltimore--Baltimore"--the wheels seemed to pound the name
from the steel rails; the car rocked to it. By the time they reached
that city the New York afternoon editions would have been distributed.
At last they glided up to the station and the porter swung off into the
waiting room. Gard rose and stood waiting, chewing savagely on his
unlighted cigar.

"It's Mahr," he apologized to Denning. "I want to learn the facts." His
hand shook as he snatched the smudgy sheets from the negro.

In big letters across the front page he caught the headline:

MURDER OF VICTOR MAHR

FAMOUS CLUBMAN AND FINANCIER
STABBED TO DEATH IN HIS OWN LIBRARY

EVIDENCE OF ROBBERY

WOMAN SUSPECTED OF THE CRIME

"Stabbed to death ... Woman suspected." His brain reeled. How "stabbed
to death"? He himself had seen--"Woman suspected." Then all his
despairing efforts to save her had been in vain! The train, starting
suddenly, gave him ample excuse to clutch the back of the chair for
support, and to fall heavily upon its cushions. He could not have held
himself upright another moment. An absurd scheme flashed through his
brain. He would, if necessary, take the blame upon himself--anything to
shield her. He would say they had quarreled over the Vandyke.

He became aware that Denning was asking for one of the three papers he
was clutching. He gave it to him, suddenly realizing that he was not
alone. He knew his face was deathly, and he could feel his heart's slow
pound against his ribs. If they did not believe him a sick man, they
must believe him a guilty one. To control his agitation seemed
impossible. The page swam before his eyes, and it was some moments
before he could focus upon the finer p