orse than I do now."

But the other was insistent. Bristow at last gave in. He would take the
rest if Braceway would report progress to him at noon.

Returning to his room, the sick man swore savagely.

"Friday!" he said aloud. "Damn it all anyway!"

Braceway lingered several minutes on the steps outside the Anderson
National Bank. He felt reluctant to go inside and start the machinery
that would ruin Morley. It wasn't absolutely necessary, he argued, with
something like weakness; he could, perhaps, find out all he wanted to
know without----

He thought suddenly of the bizarre performances of the thing men call
Fate. Because a woman is murdered under mysterious circumstances in a
little southern city, evidence is uncovered showing that a panic-stricken
boy has been stealing money from a bank hundreds of miles away; a
detective is employed by the dead woman's husband; the detective is
thrown again into contact with the victim's sister and realizes more
clearly than ever that he loves her.

What would be the result of it all--the result for him? He remembered the
gown she had worn to a ball, something of the palest yellow--how the blue
of her eyes and the gleam of her hair had been emphasized by the simple
perfection of the gown. What would she say if he went back to----

He forced himself down to reality.

He entered the bank and discovered that Morley had not reported for work.
Having presented his card to a chilly, monosyllabic little man, he was
shown, after a short wait, into a private office where, surrounded by
several tons of mahogany, Mr. Joseph Beale reigned supreme.

Mr. Beale struck him as a fattened duplicate of Mr. Illington, thin of
lip, hard of eye, slow and precise in enunciation. In spite of his
stoutness, he had the same long, slender fingers, easy to grasp with, and
the same mechanical Punch-and-Judy smile. When he greeted the detective,
his voice was like a slow, thin stream that had run over ice.

"I'm not on a pleasant mission, Mr. Beale," Braceway began. "It's
something in the line of duty."

The bank president looked at the card which had been handed to him.

"Ahem!" he said, with a lip smile. "You're a detective?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mr. Braceway, what is it? Let's see whether I can do anything for
you. At least, I assume you want----"

This ruffled Braceway.

"I want nothing," he said crisply; "and I'm afraid I'm going to do
something for you."

The banker stiffened.

"What is