ncle the night of the fog; but he gave no voice to his thoughts.

"Your aunt has some of her private funds invested in the
Interprovincial Loan and that's one of the reasons I want you with me,
Phil." Wade turned and laid a hand on Kendrick's knee while he looked
the young man quietly in the eye. "There are stronger considerations
than the money side of it, though. All I can say is that the happiness
of your aunt is as dear to me as it is to you, or as it would be to
anyone who had learned to respect and admire her as we have. That
happiness has got to be guarded, Phil, even at the sacrifice
of--everything else."

His gaze wandered away again to where the twin rails converged, and for
a moment the rhythmic beat of the wheels over the joints held sway.
Rather surprised, Phil stole a glance at the virile face that was
turned so steadfastly away and recalled an item of gossip he had once
overheard somewhere--that Mrs. Waring was the real reason Benjamin Wade
was still a bachelor. He wondered if there could be any truth in that
idle rumor.

"I'm sorry that I can't be more explicit. Did you ever try to piece
out a puzzle, Phil? That's what I'm up against now. I'll tell you all
about it--as soon as I know myself. There are men in this world who
stop at nothing----"

Phil turned abruptly, a startled look in his eyes; but the other did
not finish the sentence.

"Harrington Rives is out of jail--" he began.

"A case in point, if you like," nodded Wade. "But don't let's talk to
no purpose. We'll be passing Rutland's car in a minute. Do we stop
for your things?"

"You hired me back there at Thorlakson's," Kendrick reminded.

In this simple fashion were events conspiring.

CHAPTER X

THE STENOGRAPHER STILL LISTENING

The visitors who came and went occasionally up the back stairs at
Blatchford Ferguson's office were a motley lot. Silk hats and
expensive overcoats sometimes hung on the hooks in the corner. Again,
ill-kempt figures slunk up that back way and signal-tapped an entrance;
for in his police-reporter days Blatch Ferguson had been interested in
the study of underworld types and he made no secret of his intention of
one day writing an authoritative work upon the psychology of crime.

The big leather chair, so placed that it faced the light and left the
lawyer in partial shadow behind his desk, had held many a strange and
anxious caller in its day. Great men, men of national importance, had