ice.

It occurred to him that he should have communicated with George Withers.
The funeral was over; had been set for yesterday. He would send him a
wire as soon as he went downstairs.

"By George!" Braceway communed with himself. "If I hadn't been his
friend, I probably would have worried him. Even if Morley has embezzled
from the bank, how closely have I coupled him with the crime? Not very
closely unless he tries to pawn, or produces, some of the stolen
stuff--not any more closely than George has coupled himself with it!
George acted like such an ass!"

He was about to leave the room when, for the first time, he looked the
situation squarely in the face and made an important acknowledgment to
himself. There had been in his mind, ever since that train had pulled out
of Furmville with George's rattling whisper still sounding in his ear,
the desire and the plan to safeguard George. He had felt, on this trip,
that, if his theory about the case broke down, it might be advisable,
even necessary, to produce all the evidence possible to shield his friend
either from ugly gossip or from the down-right charge of murder. He did
not believe for a moment that Withers was guilty.

If things went wrong in the next eight or ten hours, if it was proved
that Morley had nothing to do with the murder, the thing he wanted above
all else was a story from Morley that he, Morley, had seen the struggle
in front of No. 5 as Withers had described it. Somehow, that story about
the struggle had struck him as the weakest link in George's whole story.

He had resolutely refused to consider it up to now, but he no longer
could dodge it. He had come to Washington to catch the criminal. But he
also had come with the subconscious plan of getting at anything that
would help Withers.

He stood for an instant, jangling the room key in his hand. A frown drew
his brows together. The frown deepened. He unlocked the door, went back
into the room, and put down his cane, leaning it against the wall near
the bureau.

He reached the lobby in time to hear a callboy paging him. There was a
telegram for him. It read:

"Mr. S. S. Braceway, Willard Hotel, Washington, D. C.

"Here.

(Signed) "Frank Abrahamson."

"What the devil does he mean?" he asked himself several times. "What's
this 'here' about?"

He thought a long time before he remembered having asked the Furmville
pawn broker to try to recall where he had seen the bearded man in
another d